Nothing But Letters
by Stormcrow
Summary: Matt Sarray's life is one of lonliness, debt, and boredom. That all changes when an uncle dies, and his wildest dreams are granted by the inheritance.
1. Prologue

**Prologue**

            "I know you loved him Gail. Please stop trying to hide it."

            The darkness of her quarters yielded no response, but he knew she was in there, probably face down on her bunk, brooding. He wasn't sure if the thought that i_she_/i might be fighting tears was a comforting thought, an amusing one, or just disturbing, altogether.

            Jared Panocha never fancied himself much given to just letting things lie; his time as a political liaison had given him plenty of experience in knowing what happened when loose ends were left loose. Having the personal adjutant of the ship's late Captain overwhelmed with grief was not an end Jared was willing to let dangle. The Dagger's future—more importantly, his own future—rested on the continued operation of their small mercenary unit, and he refused to let the personal feelings of the second-in-command get in the way of the fluidic machine he had helped forge.

            "Driggit, Gail, I won't have you crying your eyes out over him. We all loved Sterling in our own way, and his loss has already cost us dearly. If the troops see i_you_/i falling apart, morale will be shot. Neither of us wants that, now do we?"         

            Still no response.

            i_Women_./i

            Panocha waved his cane a little to either side of him, gently tapping on the edges of the door before walking in. It didn't matter that she had the lights off; he couldn't see anyway.           

            He had balked at the idea of optical implants, when they had been offered. While it was true he missed his sight, he refused to feel like a slave to technology. The only artificial augmentation he had allowed himself was his cane, and that was mostly to tell other people he was blind; he'd been sightless long enough he knew how to take care of himself.

            The Obsidian Dagger's Political Officer hadn't quite cleared the threshold when he heard Gail heft herself out of her bunk, and make for the door. While he had twice her mass, Panocha knew the adjutant well enough to know that even his hundred-twenty kilo bulk wouldn't stand in her determined way, and so he simply got out of it as fast as his obese frame allowed.

            "Gail, look," he started again, as she strode past him and headed for the bridge, "We've still got some options, here. There's this… will you just i_stop and listen to me/i_ for Braton's sake?"

            It didn't require his ultra-keen sense of hearing to know she was still walking away. Sighing heavily, he threw himself into a huffing, ambling jog to catch her.

            "Gail, wait! Just…" but it was obvious she wasn't having it, and by the time they reached the bridge, a half-minute later, Jared found himself completely winded, and very glad he knew the ship's internal layout by heart.

            Even before seeing her, the crew could i_feel_/i the presence of Gail Silvestri as her long, athletic legs carried her into the nerve centre of the O.D.S i_Wildcard_/i, and were on her feet before the deck officer even announced her. She waved them back to their seats with her characteristic professionalism, though some knew her well enough to detect the minute hint of impatience in the gesture.       

            Jared knew that now it was time to let it drop. It was one thing to confront a superior in the privacy of his or her own quarters; it was another to do it in front of the crew. He shook his head, and quietly faded off the bridge.

            "I have the bridge," was all she said, as she gracefully slid into the captain's command couch. The deck officer repeated her statement, an acknowledgment that she was, indeed, now in command of the ship.

            "Status report, Mr. Flezorn." It was not a request.

            "Main engines have been restored to eighty-percent peak operational status. Hull breaches are fully contained. Shields are fully functional.

"We've still got some bald spots in the armour, the engine room is a mess, the air scrubbers are still offline, and Mauler One…" the Tamaran officer's voiced faded as he spoke of the late Captain's personal command vehicle. "Mauler One was irrecoverable. We just had to pull out too quickly."

            A solemn silence hung in the pungent, un-recycled air. Sterling "Dagger" Lanza was only three days dead. Overwhelming and unexpected odds had caught the Dagger's square in a death trap.

While Lanza had garnered considerable respect, and some renown, for his brilliant and daring combat tactics, the situation had gone from bad to worse when, right on top of the Dagger's battle-weary ground troops, the enemy dropped a fresh regiment of their own.

The company-sized mercenary unit had been pounded mercilessly, and forced to flee to their drop shuttles, or face entire annihilation. Captain Lanza had bought the last, most precious minutes of escape time by running his beast of a hover tank straight into the enemy column, sowing untold havoc in a last-ditch suicide attempt.

The moment of silence passed. Gail forced her mind away, bringing the crew with her.

"Just tell me if this tub is still spaceworthy." The Tamaran made a quick check.

            "All vital stations reporting greenboard. We are on standby for departure… Captain."

            i_That almost hurts_/i, she said, silently, to herself.

            "Set course and heading for Peridon V. Ahead three-quarters."

            "Course…plotted and laid in, Sir."

            Gail slumped back in her chair, as if exhausted.

            "Let's put some distance between us and this rock," she murmured. There was a silent and hearty agreement.

            The next time she saw him was when she was in her cabin. She hadn't expected Sterling to be there, just sitting on the bed like that, but sure enough, he was; until she brought the lights up.

            i_What curse of which pretend gods have me trapped by illusion? It's not enough I still see him in my dreams; now I have waking nightmares thrust on me./i_     

            It was obvious that the hour was late; that much was evidenced by the dark circles under her increasingly sunken eyes, and she had to admit that she was somewhat startled by what the small mirror in her quarters showed. She'd had next to no sleep since the night before that fateful raid, and it was beginning to tell. She had reached the point where the ship's doctor had forced her to resign her post and get some sleep.

            Gail, of course, rebuffed him, saying that, as second-in-command, she was responsible for the ship—and the entire team, now—and that she would get rest when she saw to it that her duty had been fulfilled. Doctor Hall threatened to sedate her, if she didn't get some sleep, reminding her that she would be more of a liability, than an asset, if she were half brain-dead.

            She offered only token resistance, after that, but she knew he was right, and—with a good nudge from the good doctor—made her way off the bridge and into the dim-blue lighting of the corridor. As she staggered into the cubicle she called her "private quarters," she had to admit, if only to herself, that she hadn't entirely been telling Brynn Hall the truth, when it came to her excuse for not getting any sleep. While it was true that she was now the ranking authority, and while it was true that she was the one primarily responsible for ensuring the surviving Daggers had gotten out of that hole, alive, there was more to it than that.

            She needed distraction. i_Intense_/i distraction. Command was a convenient loophole through her deep need to grieve her lost love.

            A sudden knock on the door broke her lack of concentration, and her mind reflexively snapped to full alert. She snapped a smart about-face, ready to receive her captain's orders, or, better yet, his warm embrace.

            "You, uh, wished to see me, Captain?"

            The basso voice of Commander Panocha was not what she had expected, even though some part of her told her that she had requested a meeting with him, just minutes before Dr. Hall shoved her off the bridge.

            "Yes, um, please come in. Grab a seat. Just off to your left, there."

            "Same place you always keep it?"

            "Er, yeah. Yes. Sure. Sit. I'm not mad at you, you know. You can still call me 'Gail'."  

            "You're wasted, Gail."

            Was it really so bad that even a blind man could see her fatigue? Somewhere, in her swimming thoughts, she figured it probably was, and somewhere else, a wee part of her brain had already recalled the fact that his hearing rivaled that of most Kitaran Trackers. He'd spent years on it, she knew, and it had even saved i_her_/i life, once.

            She yawned out a "you're right," and dropped, heavily onto her fold-down bed.

            "Feels as though I've got a Zallun darii beast running around in my head. I haven't felt this worn out since… since never. Could I get you to just hit me over the head with that cane of yours? You wouldn't even have to hit," another wide yawn, "hard. And probably no more than once."

            Jared laughed, and Gail even giggled, drunkenly.

            "So, aside from being smacked around by a blind guy, what was it you wanted me for? Oh, and before you answer, I needed to apologize for earlier. I promise, I wasn't thinking right. I just needed you to…"   

            She waved it away, as she swallowed yet another yawn.

            "No, Jared, it's fine. I just needed to know what that… other…option… was."

            His sightless eyes blinked, a carry-over reflex from his pre-blind days.

            "Other…option," he queried?  

            "Yeah, that…thing you were… talking about…right before we le…left orbit."

            "Oh, yeah, that. Well, there's this kid…" He paused, his attention caught by deep, rhythmic breathing. "Gail? You still with me?"

            And she was, but only physically. Her lithe frame was now splayed willy-nilly on her bunk, dark-rimmed eyes very definitely shut. He could see none of this, of course, but the sounds of sleep were no stranger to him.

            Wordlessly, he stood, made a brief, almost unnecessary sweep with his cane, and walked out, signaling the lights to cut out, and her door to lock automatically.

            i_She needs it. She really does. I just hope that message was right, or this might be one of her last nights —of_ /iany i_of our last nights— sleeping on this ship_./i


	2. Life's Ironies

Chapter 1- "Life's Ironies" 

The hand came down on the desk with an unmistakable clap of finality.

"The answer, Miss Silvestri, is _no_. Now, will you kindly step out of the way so that I may help someone with legitimacy?"

Gail's ice-cold demeanor held in the entirety of her hot frustration as she stared squarely into the man's ginger eyes. Gazes locked, they glared silently for only a breath or two. And then he gave.

Gail let him back off completely before coming out of her hunch over the desk, frustrations still masked, but tinged, now, with smug satisfaction. He might have won, but it had cost the prig some face; she could tell by the way he shame-facedly glanced side to side, and she could see it in the eyes of his nearest of co-workers.

"Well then, Mister Harston, if you're not willing to honour the Mercenary's Code, I guess we'll just have to find someone who is." With that she pivoted on her heel and made to walk away.  
  
"Miss Silvestri," he called after her. She stopped, paused deliberately, and turned as if surprised, before walking back to his desk.  
  
"Look, Miss Silvestri, you know as well as I that Lanza named someone else as his successor. I know about your service record, I know you were his right-hand officer, but on this, I just can't bend.  
  
"Do you have any idea what kind of legal trouble this bureau would find itself in if it started letting every merc's lover, cousin and postman just randomly take over when they die? There are _rules_ for this kind of thing, and, believe it or not, I have job to do here. I'd really like to keep it, if that's all the same to you. See, I promised the wife a week in the Pennatons, next month, and if I start handing out jobs to anyone who walks in the door, I find myself without a paycheck, understand?"  
  
She arched an eyebrow, pierced him with another gaze, happy to see she could still make him squirm. "So..." she began slowly, as she tilted her head a bit to the right, "You're telling me that I get to be the one to tell eighty-five people— please don't forget we have some married folk among us, as well— that they don't get to maintain employment, eat, or have a place to live, because you want to— what was that again? Yes. Take your wife to a lush tropical paradise. Do I follow you, Mister Harston," she asked with a small, innocent grin.  
  
Harston dropped his head into his right palm, resting his right elbow on his desk, and sighed heavily. "Look...Miss Silvestri. This isn't just about me. This isn't just about you, and it's not even just about the eighty-some-odd beings you've got working for you.  
  
"Every day, I get to watch _hundreds_ if not thousands of different merc units coming through this office, every last one of them with the same sob story you just handed me. If I were to just throw the rules out for you, where would it end, huh? You going to tell twenty five _thousand_ other mercenary units that the laws don't apply to ex-lover seconds like you, just because you've got a bunch of people who knowingly signed into a hit and miss career?  
  
"I'm sorry, Miss Silvestri," he said, shaking his head, "but it just doesn't work that way. But before you go, lemme tell ya' just one last thing." He motioned for her to lean in closer. She obliged, and he whispered, "If you're dealin' with red tape, it's not usually a good idea to mess with the guy holding the roll, right? Now please, go do whatever you need to get some legality behind your operation again. Wouldn't want anyone to starve."  
  
Harston straightened, lifted a hand over his head, snapped his fingers and said, "Next."  
  
Forty-five minutes later, the six, remaining senior officers found themselves brooding around what passed for a conference table in the small debriefing room of the ODS I_Wildcard/I_. The gray paneling and dim, fluorescent lighting did nothing to lift the somber mood that filled the room, wafted on waves of stale cigar smoke and an undertone of unwashed bodies.  
  
Gail knew she should probably have seated herself in the chair reserved for the captain of the ship, but she just couldn't feel right about it, especially in the face of a rather scathing reminder that she really did i_no/It_ have the same level of rightful claim to it as the crew pretended she had.  
  
And she just couldn't usurp Sterling's memory like that, even if it were only in her own mind.  
  
Taking in the room in one, even glance, she mentally tallied that at least the right people were in attendance. Seated just to her right was the marine commander Vrala Sudhallas, a Sniv, and long-time friend of the late Sterling Lanza. While it had taken her a while to adapt to the accent and the almost cheerfully laid-back attitude of someone who regularly led men and women to what could easily end up as their deaths, she had to admit that she could see why Sterling had befriended the lizard, and kept him around for a half-century  
  
To his right was Commander Panocha, the ship's bulky— and sometimes boisterous— political officer. Worthless when it came to anything combat related, but an absolute genius at political warfare. The man had managed to land jobs for the Daggers during a time when even the Interstellar Guardian Fleet had started to feel a pinch from the job market, not too long after the Scourge were wiped out.  
  
The end of the war saw six digits worth of mercenary units— started overnight to capitalize on the enormous demand for _any_ kind of fighting units, during the twelve cycles know as "The Scourge War"— suddenly without anything else to do. Well over three-quarters of them folded as quickly as they had risen, turning loose hundreds of thousands of disgruntled, unemployed ex-mercs upon Rim systems with shattered economies. The resulting spike in unemployment, on many of those worlds, also caused them to collapse, and more colonies had ended up abandoned than Gail cared to remember.  
  
i_What was I thinking, trying to pull that job myself? Nice going Ms. "Big shot" wannabe Lanza./i_  
  
She ceased her mental self-beration, and finished her silent cataloguing of her company. Seated at the end of the table was Pren'taal O'krite, the Zallun head of security. While he said next to nothing, unless directly spoken to, he did his job with almost mechanical precision, and the results he consistently got were nothing short of impressive. He had been offered command of the Dagger's armoured company, but turned it down on some odd principle, until Lanza had essentially just pinned the title of "Tanker chief" on him, leaving him to be compelled by his powerful sense of duty to take the reins.  
  
The tankers very quickly learned a rather efficient form of sign-language and subvocalized commands, which, while Gail assumed was based on O'krite's reticence to speak, had actually upped the communication efficiency of the tankers by some considerable measure.  
  
I_Still not enough to save him. Driggit, Gail, you knew you should have forced him to stay. You knew. You knew./I_  
  
Quartermaster/chief engineer Diablen Fanthiyr— one of only three Kitarans to find their way into the Daggers— was perched in his usual, tentative manner just across from Jared, and Gail mutely shook her head as she watched him tinkering with some gadget or other, looking for all the galaxy as if the little device were the focus of the universe, never mind silly staff meetings.   
  
Last, just opposite Vrala, was Chief Medical Officer Dr. Brynn Hall. He regularly annoyed the crew with his age-born crotchetiness, but his bed-side manner made up for it, and he had acquired a good few anecdotes that he regularly (and repeatedly) shared with his patients, convinced that, even with currently medical technology, laughter really was the best medicine still on the market.  
  
Satisfied that the senior staff was in place, Gail sat, and tapped the edge of her briefing papers on the desk, ensuring they were all aligned properly.  
  
"Okay, people, let's get this moving, shall we?" The low-level chatter dropped off, and she took a moment to look each of them in the eye before continuing. "Today, we were just handed our heads on a paper platter, if you'll pardon the metaphor. I know you're probably all thinking I was unwise in choosing to leave Commander Panocha behind while I went to get us a job, and I'll have to concede that point. But," she added carefully, "We've also been told, in no uncertain manner, that this operation has lost its license with its late commanding officer. The Bureau of Mercenary Affairs and Business welcomed us to Peridon V by reminding us that Captain Lanza, for reasons he has chosen not to disclose with any of us," i_not even with me,/I_ "has included a rather unusual clause in his will that binds us to either disband, or to find a new commanding officer at once.  
  
"Well, I don't see what the problem is," Hall spoke out. "I might have to badger you to get sleep, every now and then, but what kind of stick is up whose orifice, if they think we don't have a commanding officer? I'll be honest, Gail, you may be young, but you're as fine a commander as many I've served under." He punctuated his remarks by standing and rapping a fist on the table, adding, "I say we just invoke the Code, and elect Gaily, here, as the new Captain."  
  
A hearty round of agreement was heard, but Gail just shook her head. "I appreciate the flattery, Doctor Hall, but it doesn't quite work that way. I'll turn it over to Commander Panocha to let you in on some of the details of the will. Commander, if you will?"  
  
"Thank you, Cap'n," Jared said, rising even as Gail lowered herself into her seat. "Captain Lanza was nice enough to include a Trabled copy of his will," he said, referring to the universal method of reading for the blind, through feeling series of raised bump on a medium.  
  
"Captain Silvestri has also read the plain text version, and the appropriate verifications have been done to authenticate it. I cannot say why he chose not to simply leave a holographic recording, but that's irrelevant.  
  
"I have here, in my hand, several copies of his will, which I'll pass around for your perusal. I must insist, however, that none of this leave the room until Captain Silvestri clears it. It's not going to hurt the unit, but it will definitely raise some eyebrows, and I'd like to keep the crew questions to a minimum, until we get this all worked out."   
  
Jared reached to his right, waiting for Pren'taal to take a few copies of the will, before handing the last one to Vrala, who took it with some measure of reverence, as if the plasti-paper were some sort of icon of an imaginary, Obsidian Dagger religion.  
  
"Okay, while you're all looking over the legalese garbage— he had to write it that way, or the bureau would have been all over him— allow me to just sum this up for you." Panocha drew in a deep breath, and let it out, slowly.  
  
"The long and short of it is..."  
  
"I_The frag?/I_ We gotta turn this thing over to a diaper jockey?!" Brynn Hall was on his feet again, glaring in angered disbelief at his copy of the document.  
  
"Mister Hall, you're out of line," rebuffed Gail, and the good doctor nodded absently, still staring at the sheet in front of him as he reseated himself.  
  
Jared cleared his throat, and went on. "As our Chief medical officer has so succinctly stated, Captain Lanza has deeded this entire company to his nephew, one Matthew Sarray."  
  
"Excuse me, Commander," queried the Kitaran, "But are you certain this document is binding on us? Quite honestly, I'll have to agree with Doctor Hall that this seems, well, rather farcical, and there must be some way to show BMAB that Captain Silvestri is much more within legal right to assume command of the operation."  
  
"Dat' right'choo. Da kitty cat hassss a point I be thinkin'," Vrala added with a quick bob on his long head.  
  
Jared shook his head in frustration. "No, the will clearly states that either Sarray takes the reins, or the unit legally and entirely disbands; this was done over his signature, and BMAB has notorized it. Despite Captain Silvestri's poor assessment of her performance, I must admit that even I could not have gotten around that wall with anything short of a small-scale planetary assault on BMAB headquarters."  
  
"Then we allow disbandment, and reorganize under Captain Silvestri. Surely the law will not forbid that."  
  
The blind man grimaced, and replied, "Again, Diablen, it doesn't work that way. You see, Captain Lanza _owned_ this ship, and it's all part and parcel with the turn over. We disband, the law takes the i_Wildcard/i_, and there's nothing we can do about it, unless you're all willing to go pirate."  
  
"Dat ssssoundin' like da goody plan, I sayin'," chuckled the head marine. "I been hearin' dat all dem pirates, dey gets demselves da pretty ones, dem."  
  
As much as she wanted too, Gail couldn't bring herself to entirely heat a rebuke to the mellow Sniv, though she did give him a look to let him know that this wasn't the time for jokes. The green marine merely shrugged, and returned what passed for a grin, as Snivs went.  
  
"Not an option, I'm afraid, Vrala. The Captain didn't start us out as pirates, and I'd rather not have him haunting me for letting his unit get caught up in piracy. That has already been the fate of too many other for-hire units, and I, for one, will not see the Dagger's image thrown down the latrine like that.  
  
"Back on what I was saying, we can't merely split and reform, at least not with the same kind of unit integrity we have, now. We split, and the banks will all default on the loans. Yes, we have enough to pay them, but Captain Lanza also deeded his personal savings— all five hundred million of it— to his nephew, as well. If the banks come calling, we get buried in debt or bankruptcy. Again, that's just not a viable path."  
  
"The frell was Lanza thinking," muttered Brynn. "Tells us he's there for the team, then strings us out when he dies. You sure that thing's not just some fake, Panocha?"  
  
It was Gail's turn to take the floor again. "One-hundred percent sure, Doctor. Believe me, I'm at a loss as to why the Captain followed this route as opposed to what seemed the most logical one, but... I'm afraid that there's really nothing we can do about it.  
  
"At the very least, we'll still be led by Lanza blood."  
  
"But he's i_not/i_ a Lanza, Gail. Don't you get it? It's something like his sister's illegitimate son, or something..."  
  
"He was I_completely/I_ legitimate, thank you," the Poli-officer sharply cut in. Brynn narrowed his eyes and peered at the larger man, for a moment, before proceeding in a slightly calmer manner.  
  
"Legit or not, I'm not handing my life over to some punk kid. I mean come on, he's what? This thing makes him out to be twenty one, twenty-two, maybe? The frag can some twenty-year old know about spacing, about leading a bunch of professional soldiers?"  
  
"A-hem!"  
  
"Present company excepted, Gaily. If I'd never had a daughter, you'd probably have been the daughter I never had but always wanted anyway.   
  
"'Sides you're only twenty-two on the outside."  
  
Gail rolled her eyes and slapped the table, much the same way Mister Harston, of the Bureau had done, less than an hour earlier. "Listen, people, we have two options. Let the kid lead, and pray really hard that he doesn't kill us, or go our separate ways.  
  
"Believe me, Commander Panocha and I spent upwards of three hours going over this with the Dagger's lawyers, as well as the leeches from BMAB. I'm sorry, but this is the way it is. I can't force any of you to stay with us, but like as not, he'll just recognize that he can't do it, and give it over to me. Maybe he'll even stay out of trouble, too, while the grown-ups earn a living.  
  
"Now, are there any I_rea/Il_ questions?"  
  
She was greeted with silence, and was about ready to dismiss the group when, to her surprise, Pren'taal piped up. "Pardon, Sir, but where exactly I_does/I_ this nephew live?"  
  
Gail blinked, unsure which had caught her more off guard—the question itself, or that it had been asked by the tank chief.  
  
"Um... I... let me look."  
  
"The snot lives on some dirt ball flying 'round Celus."  
  
"I_Doctor Hall/I_," Gail snapped. "Your disapproval has been noted. I will ask—I _once/I_— that you refrain from further belittlement of the Captain's nephew. For one, he's looking to be our next captain, but if nothing else, do it out of respect for Captain Lanza."  
  
Brynn bowed his head, and mumbled an apology.  
  
"Doctor Hall is right, however, in that we're going to need to travel to an agrarian world known as 'Soliven', find this Matthew Sarray, and convince him to leave whatever it is he's doing and take command of his uncle's mercenary unit."  
  
"How much djoo say da Cap'n be givin' da kiddo?"  
  
"Five hundred million."  
  
"Dja, you be wavin' five hundred big'uns in da kiddo face, he be hoppin' aboard lickety split, no? I'ma thinkin' we be jammin', den. Maybes to a different dee-jay, but, ahh..."  
  
Gail sighed, slumping forward to rest on her elbows. I_You just had to do this to me, didn't you Sterling. Just had to take it all away and give it to a hoodlum we don't even know is sane. I really thought you loved me, Sterling. I really did.   
  
You left us without a goodbye, and with nothing but letters to tell us we weren't trustworthy enough to run ourselves after you died. I really did love you. Why'd you do it, Sterling? Why? /I_  
  
Pulling herself upright, once more, she turned to the small assemblage. "We have our work cut out, then. If there's nothing else?"  
  
Heads shook around the room, and Gail got to her feet in a smooth motion that caught the eye of at least her chief engineer. "Very well, then, let's get this ship ready to meet her new captain." Tapping the comm panel on the desk, she opened a line to the bridge.  
  
"Bridge here. This is Denniman."   
  
"Lieutenant Denniman, have the navigator lay in a course for Soliven, in the Taelon supercluster. Best possible speed."  
  
"Aye, Sir, plotting course now."  
  
"Thank you. Silvestri out." With that she strode to the door, turning back to the senior staff just before stepping onto the bridge. "Looks like we get to take a little field trip."  
  
With that, the cruiser ODS I_Wildcard/I_ silently slipped orbit, and bore toward the galactic "northeast," to begin the long, circuitous route to the small, agrarian world marked on most starcharts only as "Celus VI."


	3. Failure

BChapter 2- "Failure"/B  
  
The world of Zallus Prime can, with no exaggeration, be described as a living inferno. Grating, glassy red sand plains cover the vast majority of the planet's surface, punctuated by two small, shallow oceans, and a few handfuls of razor-sharp volcanic mountain ranges.  
  
The near-zero degree axis of rotation, combined with an almost deadly proximity to the Zallun home star ensure that most of the globe is baked without change of season, while the ice-bound polar caps are merely reverse-temperature versions of the sandy deserts. .  
  
Few, if any, wonder that some of the hardiest creatures in the Federation of Races are to be found on this deity-forsaken rock in the Southern Rim. One such creature is known, in the Zallun tongue, as the zchek'zelk. Lanky, lean and incredibly fast, these four-legged plain-runners are prized for their soft— but surprisingly durable hide— and for their meat, which is some of the healthiest anywhere in the Federation, particularly sought by the masses of weight-obsessed Derivians.   
  
Matt Sarray's zchek'zelks weren't lean, and neither was his family ranch a parched, barren wasteland. In fact, Celus VI—locally known as "Soliven"— was about as extreme an opposite of Zallus prime as black was to white. Verdant, rolling hills spread endlessly across the world. Streams and rivers wove an elaborate web across the entire surface of the main continent, and the skies were overcast as often as not.  
  
Where Zallun shrubs hid themselves, small and scrubby, in caves, seeking refuge from over a dozen hours of blazing sunlight, the trees on Soliven stretched heavenward, rockets to the stars, as they competed with thousands more of any of a thousand different kinds of trees. A well-balanced abundance of sunshine and rain worked the magic of growth, and Soliven's frequent rains were warm and welcome, as they meant life, a temperate climate and, for most of the population, money.   
  
For Matt, the rain only meant misery. That the skies had chosen to open now, during his trek to check the herd, left his mood damper than the sadly-reduced expanse of grassland that was the last remnant of his family's ancestral landholding.  
  
Cranking the throttle to a fully open position, he roared his all-terrain vehicle off a small ridge, finding as much pleasure as possible in his second-long flight, before the wide tires planted themselves in the soft ground again, fanning wings of mud to either side, drenching him and his ATV in a rich, red slurry.   
  
I_Great. Another pair of overalls ruined. Gonna take an hour to clean that stuff out of the gearbox, too. Just_ had_ to rain today, didn't it?/I_  
  
He filed his murmurings away in the good-sized portion of his memory he had specially set apart for holding grudges, complaints, and things he just didn't want to let go of. There might not be all that many head left, out of the two hundred zcheks his grandfather had imported, but he still felt the need to check on them, in the fading hope that he might be able to miraculously turn around the failed gamble his granddad had gotten into, and grumbling could always be done later.  
  
There was plenty for Matt Sarray to grumble about; at least in his opinion there was plenty. With the early and unexpected demise of his parents in a freak accident aboard a starliner (they had finally saved up enough for a honeymoon, once upon a time, and Matthew's mother's father had been kind enough to take three-year old Matt for a week), he had been left to the care of an old man who never had proven his love for the boy. Not in Matt's view, anyway.   
  
Gryser "Doc" Lanza was one of the hardest-working men on Soliven, and had made well sure that his Matthew would inherit that same work ethic. With Grandpa Lanza's death only four years behind him, a now twenty-two year old Matt had finally recognized that there might just have been a good reason the old man had turned his life into a never-ending boot camp. That didn't make him feel any more cared for.  
  
With time, though, the young man had learned that "Doc" worked hard for more reasons that just building character, however. Gryser was a risk taker, and having failed more often than he had succeeded, the elder Lanza had to hustle to make up for it, and that meant squeezing more out of less.  
  
Which was exactly what had landed a secretly star-struck Derivian kid on a four-wheeler, in the middle of a mildly torrential thunderstorm.   
  
A mere six months before his death, Gryser had decided to take his two, largest gambles of all time. The first notion involved prospecting for hidden fuel deposits he seemed convinced were riddling his three hundred-square kilometer ranch. The second "brilliant scheme" involved importing ten-score zchek'zelks in an effort to cash in on a niche market that he felt still had more than enough room for competition.   
  
"Look at it from an economics viewpoint," Doc had told his grandson. "Supply and demand. All it is, my boy. People want the bounders, and they have to get the stuff from half a galaxy away.   
  
"We get our own herd going, fast, strong, and in secret, and we can corner the market within a season. 'Sides, you gotta figger that if the critters can grow in that frelling fire-pit of the Zallun, they'd multiply like tree-sondas, here! Plenty of food, water and space for 'em.   
  
"Yep. I reckon we'll have over a thousand before the year is out."  
  
The year came, the year went, and Doc was again proven wrong on all counts. The first idea ended up costing him his life, when his home-built drilling rig (he refused to listen to a teen-age grandson's suggestion to just rent one) struck a shallow and unexpected artesian well, and the pressure had fired the drilling shaft back up the borehole and straight at grandpa's head. He was dead before Matt could get him home. And now, with his grandfather dead, the boy found himself saddled with the diminishing returns of a diminishing herd.  
  
I_A thousand before the year is out. Right, grandpa. I've got twenty-seven, now. Thanks loads./I_  
  
The problem with the zchek'zelk had come as a cruel irony of life. All two hundred of them had arrived on-planet just a week and a half before the old man had taken the shaft to his temple. That whole next week and a half, Gryser had openly gloated, to his grandson, about how well the "critters" were eating, and the oft-taken trip to visit his "running gold mine" certainly seemed to bear out his idea. The scrawny-looking beasts started bulking up almost immediately, as they grazed at what must have seemed to them a never-imagined paradisiacal buffet, and profits looked guaranteed.  
  
The zcheks kept eating. Long past the time Doc had stopped eating forever.  
  
Centuries of living on next to no food— and even less water— had built the long-limbed beasts into extremely efficient food processors, storing every last particle of food and drink for use during the harshest of climactic conditions imaginable. When those conditions never arose—as was to be expected on Soliven— the storage didn't taper with the decline in need.  
  
It was only three months before the first of the zchek'zelk had perished of obesity.  
  
With the increase in fat content, the herd's overall health took a serious and sudden down turn. Much larger calves caused unnatural complications in the birthing process, and an uncomfortable number of females died in calf bearing. Added to that was the decreased energy levels in the males, brought on by having to carry a significant amount of extra weight, and breeding season saw a pitiful amount of mating; the males were simply too lethargic to mount the females.  
  
Other health complications arose— too many more than Matt could, or cared to, remember. The area's virgin market for the zcheks was left virgin, and the Lanza ranch became a laughing stock, as the "universal weight-loss animals" suddenly found themselves suffering from the very same conditions most people looked to them to help cure.   
  
An attempt to sell the leather of the dead animals met with equally disappointing results. Matt's grandfather had never taught him anything about leather preparation, and by the time he could get the dead zcheks skinned, and their pelts hauled to the town's tannery, they were simply too dry and cracked for anything but disposal.  
  
Thanks to Doc's narrow-minded focus on fuel drilling and animal husbandry, the rangeland remained just that. Not even a crop to sell. Only the small, ranch house garden still existed, after grandpa had put the old family fields to the torch, clearing the ground for more suitable grazing crop, and were it not for that, Matt really had to wonder what he'd be eating, from day to day. A staggering string of debts hadn't died with his grandfather, and the bankers— used to getting their way amongst the largely uneducated Solivenese populace— merely shrugged off his request for lenience, telling him he'd best find a way to come up with the whopping one-point-eight million in already over-extended loans, or consider himself financially ruined. And that, quite bluntly, was that.  
  
Matt had called in as many favours as he thought right, and even sold off the larger portion of the ranch, but even with that, he had only managed to shave off a third of a million from his crushing burden; and still, no succor was in sight. A friend of his, who knew something about money, had appraised every last thing Matthew had in his possession, down to the very shoes on his feet. The resulting net value offered no hope. In fact, Matt was on his last tank of fuel, and was wondering how he was going to justify the cost of using any of it, just to remind himself how doomed he really was; even his best and brightest schemes had done little to reverse the downward spiral of the zcheks.  
  
I_You know what? Forget the zcheks. I should just slaughter the lot of them see if I can't get enough to get a ticket outta here. Eh, it's a big enough world. Heck, maybe I'll just go to Evedra, hide out there. Maybe take up with the fishermen, change my name. No one'd ever expect that. They think I feel I just can't bring myself to leave this place.  
  
Yeah. Sure a whole bunch to make me wanna stay, isnt' there?/I_  
  
With that, he let off the gas, his ATV trundling to a lazy stop. Matthew took a brief look around, hoping to spot the herd through the growing darkness. Luckily— though not surprisingly, any more— they were just where he had left them, most of them too exhausted to do anything but roll around in the mud. Matt dropped the vehicle into gear, and rode over to the rotund, horned animals, and did his preliminary check for any newly dead.  
  
Sure enough, three had died, since last week, though the ones left alive seemed a bit healthier, leaving him some gladness that his idea to mix diet pills with their food had paid off; sort of.  
  
"So how'm I gonna get all you fat, lazy things clear back to the house, if you can't even get off the ground?"  
  
He was met with some blank stares, a few moans, and the sound of a few of them still trying to rip up some grass for dinner.  
  
"Sorry sight, the whole blasted lot of you, you know that?" He shook his head, and looked back at them. "Shoulda just brought the shotgun and finished you all off right here. Bah, none of you are probably even worth the shells it'd take to do it."  
  
He kicked at a loose piece of turf, near his feet, but the kicking and "pep talk" did nothing to encourage the zcheks to do any more than turn their heads. He frowned deeply, and pulled his jacket tighter around him. A cold breeze had just joined the wind, and merely standing did nothing to help keep him warm.  
  
"You know what, all you? This is it. I'm leaving, and you all can just sit here and eat yourselves to death, because you know something? I just plain don't care anymore. I'm tired, I'm wet, I'm cold, I have next to nothing in the bank, and I've eaten nothing but home-grown vegetables for the last seven weeks. Not even any kooroo spice. Do you have any I_idea/I_ how bland fetza tastes without a bit— a I_lto/I_— of seasoning? It's like eating chalk. Maybe you should try it. Might just get you to stop eating."  
  
He stared at several of the creatures, in turn, but every one refused to lock eyes, and most just responded by looking away entirely, though some added a pathetic bleat to it.  
  
"Listen to me. I'm talking to a bunch of cattle. I must be losing it."  
  
Frustrated beyond anything he'd felt before, Matt stomped back to his bike, hopped on and got it going again. It was time to put a little life in his life. It was time to head for Tanner's Barn.


	4. An Unexpected Visitor

Chapter 3- "An unexpected visitor"

Tanner's Barn, or "The Barn," as it was most commonly called, defined the term "podunk." A running joke among its neighbouring communities was that the family tree in The Barn had four branches; and that was because a cousin had ended up involved in one of the marriages, instead of the usual sibling.         

By no means a "metropolitan" settlement, Tanner's Barn still managed to pick up some of the "finer" thing in life, and the single bar, set square in the middle of town, had recently equipped itself with the largest vid screen available on planet. Power tools and heavy farm equipment were also available, as well as the corresponding services for the machines, but those were all there more out of economic necessity than anything else. Most folks still used private wells—many operated by hand—and only about half of the fifteen-hundred residents owned any form of telecommunications; most just used local pay telephones.    

The population density defied the use of the word "density," and it was basically expected that, except in the "town" proper, your nearest neighbour was no less than three kilometers away. "Town centre" was merely a collection of low lying, pre-fabbed buildings used to house the token government, the power substation, what passed as a phone company, and a baker's dozen of sundry shops and service buildings. The interconnecting streets were covered with mud, animal faeces, and crops fallen from trailers and wagons, and were patrolled by a handful of ownerless mutts trying to scrounge whatever food they could.

And Matt still felt there was more action to be had here than at the ranch.

The ATV quite literally rattled to a stop as Matt let off the throttle, just in front of the bar, and he knew he'd probably have to be finding a ride home tonight, unless someone were willing to let him board with them until the morning. Then, he might be able to catch one of the few cross-country buses that serviced the outlying farms and ranches.

Stepping off the machine, Matt planted a solid kick to the left, front tire, and mumbled a curse about, "stupid machines" and "fat zcheks." The few credits jingling in his pocket, however, were enough to remind him that he might just be able to have a half-decent time this evening, before facing the drab reality he called his life. _I used to wonder why people got suicidal, 'round these parts. Maybe Gramps was lucky after all; he was at least alive, until he died. _

If Matt's vocabulary had been a little larger, the word "lurid" may have popped to mind as he looked up at the one, working neon sign that hung over the bar, brazenly proclaiming the place to be "The Crow's nest." The Nest was about as multi-purpose a building as one was likely to find on all of Soliven, and that out of necessity. While its primary function was as a run-of-the-mill public house, the establishment had also served as everything from a place to get married to an emergency hospital, during the one planet raid Soliven had ever faced. But generally, it was just the local favourite when it came to places to socialize, watch a game, or simply drown one's troubles in a few shots of the house special; it was widely held that a "Gracie's Kicker" rivaled even the potent Zallun zgrah, when it came right down to it, though the patrons tended to favour the kicker, for its hint of fruit taste.

Matt had never been a drinker, to be honest. What few friends he had had tried to wrangle him into it on several occasions, but his one try at the Gracie's Kicker had put him off from the alcohol scene altogether. It could be said, however, that the company at the Nest—sober or not—was still worthwhile, and though Matt never could quite get around to striking up a conversation with the nightshift barmaid, he promised himself, every single visit, that the next visit would see him with the guts to at least say hello, and maybe even learn if she were dating.

If ever a stereotype could be properly applied, it was inside the Crow's Nest. Aside from the massive vid screen mounted on the far wall in the "sports lounge," this bar looked pretty much like every other one anywhere one could travel. Matt made his way in, past a row of booths, set against the wall to his right, and over to the bar, where three men sat, deep in conversation.

"So I was telling the guy that I just wasn't interested, but he kept bugging me about buying the blasted thing. So I said, 'look, pal. I'm a farmer. What the heck does a guy like me need an a chocolate-covered megrat for, anyway?'"

A few gruff chuckles followed, and Matt flopped into the stool next to the speaker.

"Telling your lies again, Harrison?"

"Still haven't shown a girl how to become a woman, 'Li'l Mattsy'?"

The chuckles were louder, this time, and Harrison ruffled Matt's hair good-naturedly with a grubby paw. "Nice to see ya' again, kid. Where you been hangin' out, anyway? The boys and I were starting to wonder if one 'a them fat-reared zcheks fell over on you. Or maybe you'd gone and done the whole 'drill shaft to the face' thing, or something."

"Hey, that's not fair, Harrison."

"Not fair," he said, looking shocked. "Not fair? You gotta admit old Doc wasn't all together upstairs, kid."

"Yeah, but he was kind of also my _grandfather_."

"Yeah, well I got a granddad still alive. Lives somewhere in Taelon, here, one of those systems just up north. The man never writes, never calls, never visits and— of all things— never sends me any money! Admit it, Mattsy, just 'case they're blood don't always mean you love 'em."

"And just 'cause they're not 'mainstream' doesn't mean you shouldn't."

"Aww, Matt. You know I'm just giving you a hard time, eh? I mean, look, he fed you, sure, he gave you a place to live, and then he ignored you, gets himself killed and leaves you in a cesspool of debt.

"Yeah, we all had to take our hats off to Doc, every now and again; man had more guts than I think I've seen just about anywhere else. But who in shioll imports _zchek'zelks_ to a place like this?"

Matt absently rubbed at an eye with a clenched fist. The day had definitely taken its toll on him, and he really wasn't in the mood for even a friendly ribbing. Sure, he knew that Harrison didn't _really_ mean most of what he was saying— didn't mean it to hurt Matt, anyway— and he knew that he actually shared much of the spoken sentiment. But still, blood was blood, and Matt Sarray wasn't one to ignore blood ties, even if they weren't all that strong.

"How about someone with _vision_ and the _guts_ to try something new, maybe? You have to admit, Harry, that if those things had worked out..."

Harrison cut him off with a small slap to the knee. "Those things'd worked out, you and your granddad might own this whole world, yeah, yeah. Heard the whole thing from Doc, five years back when he sent in that order.

"How are the lard balls, anyway?

"The 'lard balls' are doing fine, Harry. Okay, so they're _not_ fine. Three more dead, most too tired and too fat to do more than lie on their bellies and look around. I was _this_ close to just pumping them full of birdshot and cutting my losses. I mean, really, all they are big, fat liabilities, anyway."

"You hear that, Zren," Harrison called across the room, to a husky, middle-aged man on the far end of the bar. "Looks like Mattsy has just the answer for your old woman."

Zren grabbed a handful of beer nuts from the bowl in front of him, and shotgunned them at Harrison, pelting the target and those sitting near him. Matt, and the two men seated next to him, ducked or blocked reflexively, but Harrison just opened his mouth wide, and did his best to catch the nutty missiles. Zren tossed a few obscenities and a gesture after the beer nuts, shook his head and went back to his drink.

"Bah. That guy never did know how to take a joke. Sure can hold his whiskey, though, gotta give him that. Frell, If I drank even a _quarter_ what Zren put down in a night, I'd be bombed out of my skull for a week.

"You drink twice as much as he does, Harrison, and you're pretty much always drunk."

"See, like I was saying. So anyway, Matt, where ya' been? You never answered my question."

"Where do you think I've been? I'm still the same place I've been hanging out at for the last long while; between nowhere and next to nothin'. Still a million and a half in the hole, got a bunch of dying cattle, and no credit whatsoever to get back on my feet — the bank sure don't care what my problems are, I'll tell you that much.

"If there's a bottomless pit, on this planet, I'm as close to the bottom as a guy can go."

"You say you're having financial problems, young man," said a new voice.

"Excuse me," Matt replied, turning to look at the source of the voice.

"I mean no intrusion, young man, but I couldn't help overhearing your conversation." Matt picked out the man who was speaking to him, and sized him up immediately. Never knew if you might need to plant a fist in a face, when you saw it for the first time.

The booth the speaker was seated at could barely contain his bulk. Even while the man was sitting, Matt could tell he topped two metres, and from the amount of his belly spilling over the table, Matt also placed him in the one-forty kilo range, give or take. His jet-black hair was slicked back, readily pronouncing his widow's peak. Pudgy fingers were folded around some drink, as the pasty-skinned Derivian nursed it with a small measure of trepidation.

While his chubby face and polished accent most decidedly marked him as an "out-of-towner," what intrigued Matthew the most was that here, in the poor lighting of the Crow's Nest, the large man was wearing tinted glasses. _This guy think he's some sort of bigwig or something? Heh, if he's stupid enough to wear sunglasses in here, maybe he needs both his eyes _and_ his head checked. What the hey. I'll humour him; should be good for a laugh._

"So you come to laugh at hard-luck farm boys then, eh? Is that what you were listening in for? Needed something to remind you just how good you must have it, right? Hey, that's fine, friend. These guys laugh me to blushes just 'bout every time I come in here, so why not you too?"

The speaker turned to look at Matt, though there was something odd about the angle of his gaze. It was almost as though the fat man were looking just _past_ Matt, to his right. Shaking his large head, he answered, "No, son. I haven't come to mock anyone. Especially not you. That is, if you happen to be surnamed 'Sarray.' I did catch the 'Matt' part, so I'm taking a chance on the other half."

The rancher felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sleepy farm towns _never_ had large, well dressed men in shades randomly stepping into bars and knowing _any_ of the locals, _especially_ not ones the likes of Matthew Sarray.

_By the stars, is this guy some sort of hit man from the bank? They told me I had at least 'til the end of the season before they were to take action. And I figured they only meant foreclosure, not lynching..._

"Um, look, Mister, I really don't know who you are, or why you're here, but Krall Jenzdot, over at First Mutual told me I still had four months on the loans. Look, I'm really sorry that Grandpa Lanza racked up that much debt, but hey, can you cut an orphan kid some slack, maybe? I know it's a lot of cash, but..."

"You're grandfather _was_ a Lanza? As in 'Gryser' Lanza?"

_What the nyag? Now he's playing with my mind._

"Yep," piped up Harrison. "Li'l Mattsy here's the only heir to that whole line, since old Doc up and..."

Matt cut the drunkard off with a none-too-soft elbow to the ribs. "Okay, I think it's about time for me to leave. Zren? Mind if I borrow your pickup? Promise I'll have it back to you before morning watering."

Zren looked at Matt, over at the stranger, and back to Matt, nodding solemnly, and tossed over a set of keys. "Get out of here, kid, we'll handle this guy." It was only then that the young Sarray noticed that all fifteen patrons— and the nightshift barmaid, fortunately— had stopped whatever they had been about, and had turned their attentions to the little drama playing its way out in their own little pub.

"Wait! Matthew! We can help each other. Really! I'm not from the bank," the outsider started, as he edged his way out of the booth with more ease than Matt would have expected.

"How about you come with us, pal," Zren said, stepping up off his bar stool. Harrison, properly sobered by his younger compatriot's "gentle nudge," stepped up beside Zren, and the barmaid went for the vid-phone, just in case the need to ring the police arose.

"Matthew! Wait, please! This is not some kind of joke!"

The zchek herder simply grabbed the keys and his light jacket, and headed for the door, keeping an eye on the well-dressed visitor until right before he opened the door. Oddly, the rotund mystery man never turned his head to watch the kid make his exit.

As he stepped outside, Matt shuddered. But it was not the chill in the air that sent tremors down his spine. _I thought we had enough crazies with just the locals. Maybe that big screen is attracting high-class nutters, these days._

The nervous young man crossed the muddy street to a older (but still working, thank all things good) pickup truck, and got in. He started the old vehicle, gunned the engine to get it warm, and dropped it into gear.

Presently, the headlights of the pickup cast their waning beams on the drive leading up to his small ranch home, an eerie silence greeting him. Normally, Matthew would have tuned in to one radio station or other, depending on his mood, but tonight, tonight his mood was one of anxiety and guardedness; he felt it best not to have his attention divided. His alertness was rewarded just before he reached his house. As gravel crunched beneath the tires, the whirrings of what were unmistakably hovercraft drive fans caught his ear. He whipped his head around to notice a small hover car zipping up behind him. _Guy can't take a "no," can he? This is really starting to freak me out, now. Okay, then, you want me? Let's see how well you can drive._

Without warning, Matt punched the accelerator, and grinned with great satisfaction as the old engine showed why it was once one of the best on the market. When the driver of the hover car noticed he was being suddenly left behind, he poured on the speed as well. It didn't take the orphan long to realise that, good as the pickup's motor may have been, it wasn't a match for this sleek, probably late model hover-car. _Guess the flat-out run ain't gonna work, then. Let's see how he handles the gauntlet._

Jerking the wheel to the right, with one hand, he immediately down-shifted a whole two gears, before revving the engine at the end of his one-eighty. The maneuver apparently caught his pursuer by surprise, but whoever was behind the controls of the hover car obviously knew what they were doing. The fan brakes flared hard to the right, the rear part of the vehicle's "skirt" deflating slightly, dipping the craft's tail to assist the braking turn. It took the hover car a second longer than the truck to fully reverse its momentum, allowing the pickup that much more of a head start.

The old truck rattled and bounced hard along the dirt road, and Matt found his left hand white-knuckled as he clung to the steering wheel, keeping his right hand securely on the shifter lever. By the time the hovercar had resumed its earnest pursuit, Matt had goaded and extra twenty k.p.h. out of his ride, and was streaking along the dusty path at dangerous speeds. _Only one more kilometer. I can do this!_

The eagerly awaited turn came up just under a minute later, by which time the chase vehicle was inching its way along side Zren's beat up farm truck. _Now!_ He nearly ripped the shifter off, in his haste, the brakes locking under the sudden slamming of the pedal. Pulling the wheel hard to his right, yet again, Matt held his breath as the front bumper of the truck ricocheted slightly off the back end of the hover car. _Sorry, Zren, didn't mean it, I swear!_ The old beater popper up on its left-side wheels, and Matt threw his weight as far to the right as he could, praying he wouldn't roll the pickup on this slick, dusty road.

He failed.

But luck was with him, and the roll went all the way, righting Zren's favourite truck, and leaving its driver only slightly dazed. Matt quickly shook out the cobwebs, hit the high beams and realigned the pickup with the old, narrow sheep path known as "The Gauntlet." Stomping the gas pedal into the floorboard, he held on tight as he leapt forward onto the tight, sickeningly twisted back road, the hovercar snapping at his heels.

The race through the gauntlet rattled Matt's teeth in their sockets, and he was sure the wheels were going to fall off at any moment. He managed to only just glance off a few walls, in some of the more hairpin turns, and could tell that his superior knowledge of the trail was gaining him precious space and time for escaping this unknown hunter. The fact that he couldn't see his stalker through all the dust he was kicking up left him with mixed feelings. On the one hand, he had no idea where the other vehicle was. On the other hand, he was sure that the poor visibility went both way, and since the other driver had to contend with so much obscurity, he was certain to need to slow down, or risk barreling into one of the stone walls lining the trail.

_Time to lose him— permanently._ Right on time, he reached a fork in the path, just ten metres from the banks of the small lake that aided in irrigation of many of the surrounding farms. Slowing enough to prevent another rollover, Matt banked left, and headed into the very constricted, wooded stretch of the gauntlet that ran along the lake's southern shore. Driving as hard and as fast as he dare, he made it through the last stretch of the risky road in a matter of minutes. As he made ready to merge back on to pavement, he suddenly found his path squarely blocked by... a black hovercar. _You must be kidding. He took the fraggin' lake!_

Standing on the brakes, he skidded the vehicle to a dead stop, just decimetres from the second vehicle. The woods restricting a turnaround, he struggled frantically to put the truck into reverse.

No luck. Another try. Another failure. _For the love! That's _two_ gearboxes I've shredded today! Shralla help me._

Frantically glancing up, the Derivian kid froze as he watched an oddly shaped humanoid silhouette step out of the vehicle, holding what was, unmistakably, a rifle of some sort. _This _can't_ be how I go! Shralla no! I can't just be knocked off in the middle of the woods! I never even got to get her number!_

For a brief second, Matt considered just ramming the other car. Yes, that would work wonderfully. He'd be almost certain to kill or disable the driver, and while Zren wouldn't be happy with the damage, surely he would understand a man's sense of self-preservation. Then followed thoughts of debt, a fat and dying herd, the lack of _real_ friends, and... a million and a half credits worth of debt. _You know what? If they want it enough to go to_ this_ kind of extreme, they'll make the rest of my life miserable if I run now. Nothing here worth living for anyway. Okay, Granpda, hope you don't mind me staying with you again._

He turned off the high beams and killed the engine. Nothing to do now, but wait.

The dark shape brought the rifle up, a small, blinding, barrel-mounted spotlight flicking on, and the washed-up rancher could almost hear the bullet dropping into the breach, or maybe the firing coils charging up with that same, high-pitched whine he always heard in the films.

_This is it, then. All done in just a few seconds. And I was so looking forward to asking her out. Maybe Harry will miss me?_ He was surprised at just how calm he felt, with Death staring him in the face. He supposed that wasn't so hard, though, when life was meaningless.

Then, all was dark. There was no sound, no movement. Just bright, dancing colours before his eyes, and finally, a complete fade to black.


	5. Destinies Crossing

Chapter 4- "Destinies Crossing " 

            Gail's felt a mix of anger and embarrassment heating her neck and face, and loosened her collar a notch, to compensate. The Sniv looked completely nonplussed as she addressed him, and though she was used to such a response from the marine, it still irritated her.

 "Vralla, how many _times_ do I have to tell you Tracker I is not a personal toy?"

            "Go on, den. How many?

            Her eyes and hands shot heavenward in frustration. "Are we professionals, here, Ward?"

            "Dat bein' a good question, too. Ima getting' back to ya on dat one."

            "I don't know how you do it, mister."

            "It's all in da wrist, Cap'n. See, ya' just…"

            "Can it, scaly."

            "Dja. Okay. But de kid not bein' hurt, so Ima thinkin' things gonna work out, no?"

            Gail glared at her newly appointed First Officer as though Vralla had just sprouted wings from the side of his head.

            "Given that you may have _freaked him out_ bad enough to send him into cardio, I'm not so sure 'things gonna work out,' any more. That aside, we still need to convince him we're not the criminally insane and that he can, somehow, trust us.

            "Even Panocha scared this kid, and if _Panocha_ makes the kid jumpy, then the rest of us haven't a prayer.

            "You pray, Cap'n?"

            She gave him a "you know what I mean" look, before continuing.

            "Listen, I told you to just make contact with him, not make him wet himself, which he probably did. Best we know, he's probably never even used a gun for anything other than chasing predators away from that herd Commander Panocha reports him as having. How is the Commander, anyway?"

            Vralla rested chin in hand, for a moment, and said, "If Ima remem'brin' right, he's bein' okay, but I seen da bruises dat he got, and dey not pretty. Docta' Hall say Commandah Panocha gonna be all good, doh."

            "Good, good. I need to head down to sickbay and check on him. Uncivilized hicks. Can't even treat a blind guy half-decently.

            "Anyway, like I was saying, the indications are that this kid is," and she begin to tick the points off on her fingers, "Lacking in education, completely without military training, probably low on social skills—though that's just a guess—and not at all suited for a command position.

            "Add to that the fact he probably thinks he's being stalked, and I'm not even sure our offer will have the slightest bit of allure for him."   

            "Even five-hundred bigguns?"

            "Even five-hundred million credits. I mean, sure he'll want the money, but there are more than enough legitimate looking scams out there that even we have to be on guard. And we know what to watch for. This kid sounds paranoid, and he might well just figure this for some kind of scheme to fleece him. We've already scared him once, and if we spook the kid again, there's a good chance we'll never get him, in which case we're through."

            "Don' worry, Cap'n. I get him for you."

            "No!"

            "Whoa, dere. Hold on. He din't see me, dja? So Ima sayin' I be nice to him, wave some money, you know."

            "You had your chance, mister, and you blew it. Besides, I think it might be safe to assume some xenophobia here. Soliven is populated almost entirely by Derivians, except the capital city, as I understand, and there's a chance he's not ever seen another sentient species."

            "No Tammies, eh?"

            "Point taken, but usually, they spend their time dealing with the merchants, which he, apparently, is not. From what little we've been able to garner on him, he's just a rancher. Cap'n Lazna's father seems to have been his legal guardian since his parents died when he was age five or six or thereabouts. As best we know, he's been on this ranch ever since. And the village nearest the ranch is so… backwards… from Commander Panocha's report, that it might be a wonder if half the population can even spell 'backward'."

            "So… I not be goin' back, den, is what you say?"

            "You got it."

            "Dat's all I needed to know. Anyway, Cap'n I gots tings need'n takin' care of, so I'll jus' be going, now, dja?"

"Get out of here."

"Djyoo gottit."

            Gail let herself fall back into a chair as her second-in-command slipped out of the officer's briefing room and back to the bridge. Initial attempts at contacting Sarray had not gone well, and while she tried to hide her concern for the continuation of the Daggers, she wasn't sure whether or not she'd fully managed to do it. She'd read the will— very thoroughly —several times, and there was no getting around it. Either the kid, Matthew Sarray, assumed full command for at least five years or three missions, whichever came first, or the Obsidian Dagger's ceased to exist.

            She'd cringed when she first read the proviso for his minimum period of command, since she was hoping for a loophole that would allow the boy to just do things the right way and hand the unit back to its rightful owners. But Sterling had, for reasons his own, surgically removed that ray of hope. She had intentionally left that detail out of her report to the crew, shortly after being rejected on Peridon V, though she knew that Jared knew, and that most of the officers suspected somesuch.

            Even so, she was sure this Sarray kid had no military registry. And while merc outfits weren't "properly" military, BMAB still insisted on military-style regulations and ranking structures, ensuring at least a reasonably insane level of complication amongst the myriad mercenary units. In other words, no matter which mercenaries you were dealing with, ships were almost always commanded by a  "captain," ground forces by a "commander," and so on and so forth, adjusting for racial translations as needed. On top of that, there was also the legality afforded military officers. BMAB had been very careful, especially since the "boom and bust" of mercs during the brief, hot war with the Scourge, to ensure that not just anyone could assume to be a ranking officer, even if only in a mercenary company. That meant that one way or other, this kid would need to be put through the process of being made an officer.

The trick to it was that he had neither experience nor seniority. In fact, his only claim to a captaincy was his designation in Lanza's will. BMAB may know about the situation already, but Gail knew bureaucrats well enough to know that there'd still be the devil to pay, when it came to getting a farm boy his bars.

            She sighed, closed her eyes and leaned her head back. Ghost of Sterling Lanza help us. With that thought, she hit a button to open a audio-only channel to the sickbay. A few moments later, the gravelly voice of Dr. Hall came on line.

            "Hall here. What'dya need?"

            "Dr. Hall, I need a report on Commander Panocha."

            "Driggers got him good, but I've managed to patch him up even better. You wanna talk to him, Gaily?"

            "If he's available, yes."

            "One sec." She waited as she heard the murmured conversation between the ship's medical and political officers, and then listened as Hall's voice was replaced by the more mellow tones of the Dagger's poli-liaison

            "Commander Panocha here. What can I do for you, Captain Silvestri?"

            "How you feeling, Jared?"

            "Well, I heard what Dr. Hall told you, and, while a bit more coarse than I would have put it, that about sums it up."

            "Glad to hear it wasn't overly serious. What happened?"

            "As I mentioned before, I approached Sarray about the offer, and I suppose I came across as some sort of threat. Several of the other patrons accosted me before I could follow him out of the bar, and then assaulted me for two or three minutes before tossing me out in the street.

            "Fortunately, Commander Sudhallas had been in Tracker I during the incident, or I think we may have had a mob on our hands, after he had finished dealing with the men that attacked me.

            "From there, we attempted to trail him to his home, and then it went, well, downhill from there."

            Gail nodded, appreciatively. "Understood, Commander. Do you feel up to attempting contact again?"

            There was a pause, and when Panocha finally responded, she detected a definite note of hesitation in his words. "You wish for me to try again? Captain, given that I have already given him quite the scare, I'm not certain…"

            "Yes, yes, I know. And I told Sudhallas he couldn't go back because he'd already lost his chance by scaring the kid. But see, you didn't pull a gun on him, even if it was only to use the barrel-mounted light.

            "Of all the people on this ship, only you and Lieutenant J.G. Flezorn are smooth enough talkers to still have a chance of changing his mind. As I told Commander Sudhallas, this Sarray kid might have a case of xenophobia, and I don't want to risk running him of by triggering that on top of his paranoia."

            "I see," Jared said, slowly. "So, you believe that since Matthew and I are of the same race, and since I was the first one to actually encounter him, that I could somehow convince him that our meeting in the bar wasn't what he thought?"

            "Exactly. And let's not forget that you need to convince him to join us. See, even Flezorn isn't likely to be able to pull that one, meaning you're our last, best, option."

            "Begging the Captain's pardon, but I must respectfully disagree with that opinion."

            Gail raised her eyebrows, and leaned in closer to the speakers. "And why would that be, Commander?"

            "Well, if I might be blunt, yet professional, I believe that _you_, sir, are the most well-suited person to talk to him."

            Gail frowned at the voice. "Go on," she added, warily.

            "Well you see, Captain, as I said, I need to be blunt but professional. First, you are the commanding officer of this entire company. You, of any of us, have the most right to make such an offer and, as such, have the most legitimacy."

            "Yes, but my ability to delegate authority is not in question. And your statement is not exactly all that blunt. Get to the point I'm sure you're trying to make."

            She could have sworn she heard a sharp intake of breath and a long exhale, on the other end. "You're a woman, and you're about Matthew's age."

            That earned a hot scowl, and she was on her feet in a heartbeat. "If you mean to use me as a…"

            "No, no, no, Captain. Not at all what I was implying."

            "This had better be good."

            "Yes, yes, it is. To put it straight, most of the crew tells me you're not terribly unattractive— hear me out — and Matthew is of the age where women are of marked interest to him. Honestly, if _I_ have already given him cause to fear me, and most of the rest of the crew is unqualified, in your opinion, to do this, well…"

            _The_ crew _is telling him this? I wonder what else they've been saying about me. If I find out that_  any _of them have snagged a copy of that picture..._ Gail could feel her blood beginning to boil, but as the logic settled in, she felt some of the heat draining out of her. The idea was valid, she had to admit, but that neither meant she had to agree with nor accept it. She sighed.

            "Noted, Commander. Conceptually you _are_ correct, but I'd rather not use my 'not terribly unattractiveness' to land us a future. With all due respect, as you say, I still believe you are the prime choice for this mission. _However_," she added abruptly, knowing she'd regret it, "I will accompany you to the planet. We'll discuss thing from there."

            "Very well. Is there anything else you needed from either Dr. Hall or myself?"

            "Yes. When can you be ready to leave?"

            It wasn't until the fans wailed and then dopplered into the distance that Matt realised he was still alive. What the? For several minutes, all he could do was stare into the blackness, neither moving nor blinking. About the time he realised his eyes were dried out and burning, he snapped to, and slumped back in the bucket seat, rubbing his eyes for the second time tonight.

            I'm... alive. I'm _alive_?

            Blinking a few times, he gazed off into the night, as his eyes slowly made the adjustment to the low light levels. Matt probingly pawed at his arms and face in an attempt to verify his aliveness. His tactile findings were encouraging, and he reached for the key in the ignition, just to make sure. Yep. Still feel that, alright. Hesitantly, he turned the key, and the engine coughed to life, but held a firm idle, once started. _Okay. More good. Good._

            His attempts at backing up were repulsed by the vehicle, but he found that he could still go forward, and that was plenty good enough. The accelerator was a bit soft, and the steering slightly unresponsive, but Matt had no doubt he could still make the Sheriff's office in good time.

            Sheriff  Mark Borgerund did a double take as Matt walked through the door. "Son, you done look to've seen a spook, or something," he said, jumping to his feet. "What's gotten to ya', Matt?"

            Matt shooks his head and brushed a stray lock of brown hair from his forehead. "Got a beer?" Borgerund nodded mutely, and went to the small refrigerator in the kitchenette near the back of the cramped police station.  He snagged a pair of tall, metal cans from the cooler, and tossed one Matt's way, even as the rancher was settling into an old, plastic chair. Matt's trembling hands barely managed to catch the can, but he succeeded. He fumbled the can in his hands, for a moment, and then held it fast, though in a quivering grip. The lawman just shook his head in pity, as he pulled up a chair in front of the young man, and leaned forward to give him a  look-over.

            "Frell, Matt, someone try to kill ya', or something?"

            "Actually, yeah. Or at least, they sure got me thinking that."

            "You know them pranks are taken pretty ser'ously 'round here, right? If them school kids are up to their drek, again, I'm shuttin' them down long term, this time."

            "Yeah, I know. But I don't think this is a prank," Matt said, shaking his head. "I think it's the bank."

            The Sheriff leaned back in surprise, eyes wide. "You mean, ol' MacIntyre's after you again? I thought I already made it clear that they weren't to use illegal means of getting back that cash your granddad borrowed from them. Drig those fat bloated..."

            'It's fine, Mark. I don't think they actually meant any harm. I mean, not right _now_. But there was no mistaking the message they were sending, and I wouldn't be surprised if it only gets worse from here."

            "You think it'll come ta' that, huh? Well, lemme get some papers out, and you can start filin' a report, right here, right now."

            "You sure about that? MacIntyre's got real pull, 'round here."

            "He ain't above the law, Matt," Mark answered flatly. "Shioll, I don't care _how_ much money his fat end it sitting on. He screws around with the good folk of this region, it's my duty to remind him we got cells big enough to hold even him. For a long time. "

            "Thing is, I haven't got a scrap of proof. I start blaming MacIntyre without any evidence, and his lawyers will eat me alive."

            Mark c0cked his head to one side, and rested his chin in his hand. Narrowing his eyes, he asked, "You got probable cause?"

            "Million and a half. Sure."

            "What're you willing to stake on you being right?"

            Matt gave a somber laugh. "What do I _have_ to stake on it?"

            Mark chuckled grimly, too, and nodded in agreement.

            "You know, Mark," Matt sighed, shifting the yet-unopened can to his other hand, "I'm not sure I even wanna keep trying. I mean, really, look at my life. Honestly, take a good look at it. No friends, buried in enough debt to practically buy this whole town, got a girl I think I'm madly in love with, but can't even bring myself to talk to her. Add to that the fact that I'm a complete failure as a rancher, and really, what's left?"

            "Aw, Matt," the older man said, slapping him on the knee, "You know that ain't true."

            "What part of it is a lie, Mark?"

            "The part about not having any friends."

            Matt sighed again and slumped his shoulders. "You know what I mean, Mark. Frell, only reason you're being so nice to me, right now, is because you're the Sheriff, and it's your job to 'protect the innocent.' Well, that and you're everyone's buddy, long as they're on the right side of the law."

            "Come on, Matt, that ain't true, either."

            "Isn't it? I mean, look, I appreciate your help, here, but you gotta admit that we're not _really_ all that 'buddy buddy,' when it comes down to it. Like I said. I'm just not sure if I should even run from them. I mean, think of it this way— they bag me, I'm debt free and problem free. Forever."

            "You're also dead."

            "Price for everything, isn't there?"

            The two men shared a short laugh, and Matt straightened in his chair, beer can catching a gleam from the overhead lights.

            Mark's face took on a puzzled expression "Matt? I didn't think you were a drinker."

            Matt snorted a quick, ironic laugh, and looked down at the beer warming in his sweaty hand. "No, guess I'm not. Must'a been all that time spent at the Nest. Figure that everyone else comes there when they need to forget their troubles, and the first thing they do is get a beer. No-one ever said you had to _drink_ the thing."

            They both laughed again, and Matt felt his spirits lift, some, for the first time since meeting the dark stranger, earlier that evening.

            "Maybe I just need a fresh start. You know, just a whole new ball-o-wax. New place to live, new people to know, no banks breathin' down my neck. Whole new life, ya' know?"

            The tow-headed cop blew out an upward breath, saying, "Dont we all wish for that. Me and the missus'd sure like to be takin' that cruise we've always dreamed of. You heard of that Seminonni River cruise? The one through them little islands? Sure'd be fun to just start over all rich 'n' famous, but you and I both know that's not gonna happen to either of us, any time soon."

            Matt licked his lips, and nodded his assent, and both men lapsed into silence.

            A warm night breeze wafted through the one window at the front of the building, and the sounds of nocturnal insects could be heard, floating along melodiously on that same breeze. Matt had finally calmed to the point of reflectiveness, and he found his mind wandering, trying to find the meaning of his existence. He had to admit he liked Mark's company— not to mention the feeling of security afforded by being in a police station— but there was still something missing. His job was a bust. No relationship was on the horizon, no matter how hard he spun his mental wheels, thinking of ways to link up with the night-shift barmaid. His financial status was beyond dead and buried, and now he was the target of some kind of sick attempt to collect on that debt. It was one thing to deal with the list of predators that roamed the plains, and occassionally got onto the ranch. It wasn't all that different to go hunting the viscious Neernits in the woods. It was an entirely different thing to _be_ hunted, and to be hunted by sentient beings using logic, subtlety and ruthlessness.

            Matt had never before felt so vulnerable, had never felt so insecure. With a startle, he realised he had also never felt so alive, so energized as when he was fleeing for his life through a warped, old sheep's path in the middle of the night. The follow up logic was almost inevitable. _If I can just figure out who, what, where and when, then I can survive. I can win._ A deep stirring in his soul told him what it had been that he had longed for, and Matt knew at once that his destiny lay crossed with that of Adventure's. One epiphany after another flooded into his mind, and the young man came to understand that his childhood dreams and fantasies had been hastily and deliberately suppressed into such a dark, distant corner of his mind that he dare not even believe such things were allowable thoughts, let alone entertain them.

            It all made sense, now, why he always felt guilty watching "Steelshard Bladeheart," and why he was felt like a criminal every time he cracked open an issue of "Starships Today." He knew that his grandfather— and later himself— had so conditioned him to ignore the call of the stars, each time he gazed up into the night sky, that he no longer saw them as anything other than semi-daily pinpricks of light.

            He made to stand, but thought better of it. The facts still remained that he _wasn't_ sure about who was behind this, why, or where and when they'd strike. For all Matthew knew, Sheriff Borgerund could well be in league with the perpetrators. For all he knew, the whole _town_ might have been bought off by Clem MacIntyre, owner of Tanner's First Security Bank. No, adventurism, he realised, would best be tempered with at least a little caution, lest he be killed short of fulfilling himself.

            "Goin' somewhere, Matt?" Borgerund had obviously seen his aborted attempt to stand.

            "Thought about it. Why? Got something in mind?

            "Well, seeing as you're on the run, I figger the safest place for you to spend the night might be here in the Sheriff's office. Guns here for safety, and I've got the night watch. Those blood-s.uckers come around here looking for you tonight, and I'll make sure they've got something else to think 'bout, 'sides their cash."

            And if Mark's really working for them...

            "Tell ya' what, Mark. How's about you give me a police escort back to my place. We sweep the house to make sure it's clear, and then I just crash there. Granddad Lanza set up a  half-decent security system, so I figure I'll be safe enough, there."

            "You sure about that?" Matt read real concern in the officer's eyes, and took some comfort in that, knowing that Mark Borgerund, while a good enough cop, was no actor.

            Matt chewed his lip thoughtfully, and shrugged. "Yeah. Might as well. Maybe whoever's after me will figure me for having made a run for it, and there's a small chance they even saw me come in here. If I were smart, I'd take you up on your offer. I'm thinking that a bit of 'crazy' might throw 'em, eh?"

            Mark gave the younger man a lopsided grin and an obliging chuckle. "Matt, I never figger'd you for much of a schemer, but I gotta say you might just have something, there. Lemme grab my gun, and we can take my car."

            With a grateful smile, Matt stood up, adding, "Thanks, Mark. Guess you might just be right yourself."

            "'Bout what?"

            "Maybe I'm not really entirely without friends."

            It was bright and early the following morning when Mark Borgerund found himself at the Lanza ranch for a second time in as many days. This time, though, the sun was shining, making for a beautiful new day, in contrast to the angst-filled yesternight that marked his last visit.

            As he reached up to knock on the battered, wooden door, he cast an evaluating glance at the large, dark-haired man next to him. It had only been an hour since this out-of-towner had stopped by his office, requesting an escort to see "Mr. Matthew Sarray," and Mark still wasn't entirely sure what to make of him. While he seemed friendly enough, and his story plausible, Mark was always wary around rich folk from distant places.

            All the same, he couldn't help but admire the way the large blind man made a guy feel at home— inasmuch as possible, given the odd circumstances— and Jared seemed to have a great ability to laugh at himself, even pretending to run into walls after thoroughly feeling them out with his cane. Eventually, Mark had permitted himself to believe the man was not out to get Matt, and agreed— at Jared's request— to accompany him to the ranch, to ensure there was "no undue business," and that Matt was safe.

            Even then, however, there was just something that didn't quite seem... right.

            Jared stood patiently as the local Sheriff knocked. I still wish Gail had come with me.  I'm certain she was the better choice for this. All for the best, in any case, I assume. She may yet be feeling a failure.

            As he sat there, anticipating the arrival of his (possibly) future commanding officer, he noticed a slight quickening of his pulse, and a warm sense of excitement building in him.  only wish I could see the boy. See how much of his mother's side is in him. I wonder what Sterling would think of his nephew?

            It occurred to him, then, that maybe it really was better that the Dagger's attractive, young, sub-captain had refused to join him in making the offer to take Sterling's spot. She could be a problem, that one, if Matt takes too much of a liking to her. Even as he was forming the thought, another part of his mind dismissed it out of hand. While I hate to think it, I don't think the boy has a chance with her, in the slightest. She's like a Cyclone, that girl, when it comes to shooting down men that make passes on her. Still, the possibility of mutual attraction existed, and Jared had personal experience to back up oddly-paired couples, so he filed the idea away as something to keep an eye on.

            A few minutes passed as the two men waited on the creaking porch. Jared kept a slight, patient smile on his face as Sheriff Borgerund knocked twice more. At last, Jared's finely-tuned ears picked up what sounded like footfall on stairs, and listened as the sound approached the door. At last, I'll get to meet him again!

            What the heck is he doing, getting me up at this time in the morning? I thought I told him I'd be taking today off. Mark had heard the first knock, and ignored it. The second and third times were enough to convince him to reluctantly roll out of bed and see who it was that had the gall to bother him. Tugging on his pants, he rubbed his eyes and headed downstairs, stretching and yawning as he went.

            The face of Mark Borgerund wasn't what he expected to see through the door glass, but he just shrugged mentally, and went to answer it. He pulled open the door to say hello, and then saw…

            "Hello, Matthew. I've come to apologize, amongst other things."

            What on Soliven is he doing at my house again ?! Matt leapt back and made a run for the far side of the living room. He whipped the shotgun off its rack over the hearth, and covered the door with it as he determinedly made his way back to the front of the house.

            "Thought you were my friend, Mark. Now you're bringing 'em right to me, huh? Never figured you'd sell me out like that, Sheriff ."

            Mark hastily waved his hands in front of him, a look of fright crossing his face. "It ain't like that, Matt! This guy's here just to talk with you, and I'm along to make sure he don't do anything 'unt'ward' to ya', okay?"

            "What's saying MacIntyre didn't buy you off, too" Matt asked, peering alternately at the two men through slitted eyes.

            "Matt, come on, you know me better than that," and Mark put his hands in the air above his head in a gesture of harmelessness.

            "Everyone's got their price, Mark. What was yours? First class cabins for that river trip?"

            Mark exhaled in frustration. "Look, Matt. Just put the gun down and let us talk to you, okay? This here is a Mister Jared Panocha, and he says he's a friend of your family. Somethin' to do with that space-ace uncle of yours.  Look, I'm sorry for getting' you up so early. I know you planned on taking a day off, but I'm guessin' this is pretty important, what this boy has to say."

            Matt felt a wave of fatigue rush through him, and realized that his half-awake mind probably was overreacting a bit much. He lowered the gun, but kept a good grip on it. Rubbing at his eyes again, he reached out and made to unlock the door. "You're probably right, Mark, but if it's all the same, I'll just be holding onto Old Jimmy here, while we 'talk'." Mark dropped his arms, and made a promise on his father's grave that he was neither treacherous nor traitorous, and Matt let the two men in, keeping the gun pointed a the floor in front of them.

            As the large, raven-headed stranger followed the sheriff in, Matt immediately noticed the green and blue striped cane held in front of him. Either he really is blind, in which case I'm a fool for thinking him a killer, or he's sharp as a tack at this acting business, in which case I'm a fool for letting him through me door. That would explain why he's always wearing those shades, though. The tall, rotund man made nothing in the way of even a cursive glance at his surroundings  as he came through the door. Instead, he stopped, briefly, and then used his cane to feel out a path to a couch. He reached the old settee, but remained standing, turning in Matt's general direction.

            "Matthew Sarray, my name is Lieutenant Commander Jared Panocha, and it's a pleasure to meet you," said the visitor in calm, friendly tones, as he extended his right hand.

            A "Lieutenant Commander"? What's military brass doing, visiting me ?

            "I realize I may have given you quite the scare, the other night, but I'll admit that I wasn't actually expecting just such a random encounter like that, and I lost my tongue for a moment." Matt briefly weighed up the proffered hand before taking it, giving it a short, firm squeeze. The man who had introduced himself as "Jared Panocha" responded with the same, and Matt admired the solid, quiet strength he felt in this blind man before him.

            "Matt Sarray, owner of this hole and babysitter for the fattest bunch of zchek'zelks you'll ever see. Now, why are you here, and who sent you?"  Panocha turned slightly to his right, to more directly face his host. Matt found the blindness disturbing because of his unfamiliarity with it, but also took a small degree of pleasure in knowing he had a definite upper hand, if things went sour.

            "As I said, I am Lieutenant Commander Jared Panocha, Political Officer of the mercenary unit known as the Obsidian Daggers. It was founded and, until recently, commanded by your mother's brother, Sterling Lanza. I am here in his behalf, and on the behalf of the rest of the unit."

            Matt dropped the hand, and backed away, eying the merc warily. "Okay, so that tells me the 'who'. How 'bout the 'why'?"

            "Yes, probably the part you're most interested in, I imagine. Do you mind if I sit?"

            "Sure," Matt said, as he bobbed his head in the affirmative, and Jared settled, heavy and slow, onto the couch. Matt cringed as he heard the frame and springs moan in great protest.

            "You might want a seat too, Matt." Matt took up a chair, and turned it to face the Commander.

            "Well, do you want the long version, or the short version?"

            "Just give it to me straight."

            The blind man nodded and continued, "Your uncle has left both the Daggers and the sum of their assets to you. Aside from several other liquidatable assets is a lump sum of five hundred million credits.

            Matt almost had to stoop to pick up his jaw. "Five. Hundred. Million?!"

            "You heard me correctly. And, as I understand, you could use a bit of financial bailing out, at the moment. Am I right on that?"

            Matt nodded dumbly, not even realizing that the speaker's accent had already begun morphing into something he was much more used to.

            "Thought so. See, that's what I was trying to talk to you about, just the other night. Heh, all I managed to do was scare you off, I guess. Sorry 'bout that. Anyway, Sheriff Mark, here, told me all about your trouble with the bank. I know about your grandfather, and I realise that the debt wasn't your fault at all. In fact, to show you I'm serious about this offer I'm gonna make, I've used a bit of license to make a, er, funds transfer in your name."

            Matt blinked, but found his tongue despite his astonishment. "You mean, you paid off the million and a half? Just like that," he said, snapping his fingers. Jared smiled and nodded.

            "A million and a half. That's nuts," and all he could do was shake his head in utter astonishment. If what he was hearing were correct, the most crushing burden he'd ever felt had just evaporated like water under a nuclear blast. It was beyond conceivable.

            Jared's face took on an amused look. "Son, we've purchased cargo loads costing more than that. And we've done it several times."

            The rancher nodded eagerly, adding, "Well, I guess since you're giving me five hundred million, my debt must'a been chump change."

            Jared's lips did a reverse pucker, baring his teeth slightly, and Matt caught it instantly. Idiot! How could you forget—everything has strings attached!

 "This is a joke, isn't it?

"No joke, son. Just a condition. Your uncle Sterling didn't just 'give' you the money."

            "Figured. Well you can keep your conditions. I might be a rancher, but I know that when this much money is on the line, the 'conditions' are probably about as bad as they come." Matt folded his arms across his chest, and set his mind to refuse any argument the other man would use to convince him to go along with this ploy; even 500 million credits. Apparently, the visitor had an ace up his sleeve.

            "You want off this planet? You want out of this lifestyle?"

            The young man made to rebut, but stopped short. He suspiciously evaluated the odd, plump merc as he thought. "Yeah. I do. How'd you know that?"

            Sheriff Borgerund timidly raised his hand, ducking his head to one side. Matt stared at Mark as if to ask him what _hadn't_ shared with this complete stranger.

            "Look, Matt, I know where you're coming from. I was young, once, too, back before I lost my sight. I served with your uncle, but I also knew your parents. Heh, this isn't actually even really the second time we've met. But I can tell you've got your father's spirit of adventure. It ran in his family, and he ended up marrying into a family of spacers. You've got it coming from both sides, Matt.

            "You weren't meant to be tied to the ground. Right now, I bet you're feeling like a bird caught in a net; you can see the sky, and you long to be there, but you're trapped hard. Matt, you were meant for so much more than this." Matt wanted to fight the man's words, wanted to just run away from the end of what was surely no more than the best dream he'd ever had. Better to just kill it now, before it became so tangible he could hold it, only to have it snatched away with the morning's light.

            But he couldn't deny his desire to believe. His need to believe. As if he were in the middle of a consuming fire, he could feel the shackles melting away, and years worth of chains being burned clean from his soul. It was simply too good to be true, and yet, there was no way Matt could bring himself to deny it. Or to deny himself.

            Matt snapped out of his trance in time to hear Panocha say, " Sarrays belong to the stars, not to ranches and farms. This command will give you the…"

            Matt stiffened immediately. "Whoa, whoa, whoa! Command?"

            Jared licked his lips and nodded again. "That's right, son. Command. As in, being in charge."

            "In charge of what?"

            Jared sighed and leaned back, drawing more groaning from the already taxed furniture. "You get command of the Obsidian Daggers. Your Uncle Sterling is giving you his old job."

            Matt's head was spinning. Just last night he'd thought himself the target of an angry banker. Next thing he knew, he was figuring out that most of his life had been a self-made lie, followed by magical occurrence that promised to hand him all his dreams on a silver platter. _Command a merc unit? Fly my_ own _starship? Shralla in the cosmos, how much longer can I stay asleep and keep this dream going?_

            "Matt? You alright, bud," Mark asked, concern in his voice. Matt just blinked again, and waggled his head, weakly. "You want some water or something?" Another shake of the head.

            "I know this is an awful lot to chew on, right now, and I'll understand if you refuse. Running an outfit like the Dagger's isn't for the weak of mind or stomach. I won't be offended if you just tell me to get lost and never come back." Jared had leaned forward, again, and was making to get up.

            "No! "

            "Okay. I'm sorry to hear that, but the choice…"

            "I mean, 'no, don't leave.' Please, sit. Tell me more."

            And the Derivian Lieutenant Commander obliged. For the next two hours, a young farm boy sat in rapt attention as what may as well have been a fairy godfather poured out Matt's wildest fantasies before him. Details of Lanza's will gave way to tales of cruising the stars, battling pirates, rescuing the oppressed, and—of course—the obligatory grateful women that came with the job.

            For Matt, however, the most intriguing story came when Jared explained the circumstances of Sterling's death. The Daggers were on contract to liberate a nameless, backwater planet from its tyrannical governor. The population was smaller than flyspeck, and maintained nothing more than a token militia and a veteran bodyguard unit attached to the Governor. The militia doubled as a planetary police force, though there was only one town of any note on the entire world. The Daggers studied the target, the intelligence, and their readiness status, and determined the job do-able.

            Things followed the plan to a "tee" during the initial landing and the early marine action. The five-being covert operations team infiltrated, hit their targets, and exfiltrated without a hitch, leaving the Governor's main power grid a smoking heap of rubble, and cutting off the command/control/ communicate, or "C3" abilities of the enemy. The militia had been taken completely by surprise, and was still sorting things out when the Dagger's main ground forces hit the town.

            The marines had gone in full-bore, hooting, hollering and blazing away with everything they had, doing a high-tech rendition of a bird puffing its feathers out to appear larger and deadlier than it is. The half-trained militiamen broke and ran, despite that they heavily outnumbered the Dagger's troops.  The bodyguard unit, however, had already been put through their paces, and offered a much stiffer resistance, resulting in some casualties (and some fatalities) for the Daggers. But the mercenary company proved why it wasn't considered "green," and within two hours, the 84-being company had secured the planet's capital city.

            Then all shioll broke loose. While the marines were busy licking their wounds (and patting each others backs), a pair of military-grade interceptors ripped out of hyperspace, uncloaked, and jumped the Wildcard. While the heavy cruiser found itself fighting fire with fire, a cloaked transport shot down to the planet below, dumping an entire regiment of ground troops on the outskirts of the city. Luck alone had put the new arrivals on the side opposite the Dagger's drop shuttles, but the running retreat had been costly for Lanza's unit.

            House to house fighting degenerated into a flat-out run, with the tanks holding a solid, but steadily receding line, providing the best cover possible for the infantry and light vehicles. The tanks held longer than expected, but when one of them went up in a boiling fireball, it was clear the fight was over for the Daggers. Still a kilometer from their last hope of salvation, the enemy ranks made a charge at the failing mercenary lines, hoping to crush the unit in a single blow.

            Just as the charge reached full-tilt, Sterling Lanza snapped. In his one-man battle tank, he redefined the word "berserk." Some of the crew swore they saw at least one of the main guns melt off from the heat of sustained and furious fire, but the mass confusion, thick cover of smoke and the heat of battle never allowed for that tale to be more than a rumour.

            Lanza made a one-man counter charge that would have made the Light Brigade proud, and the reinforcements were caught flat-footed. Within five minutes, Sterling Lanza and his tank, Mauler I, were slag. But that five minutes proved just enough time for the remaining troops to reach the shuttles and make for orbit.

            The battle above the planet had gone little better for the Daggers. The interceptors, while neither as well-armed or protected as the heavy cruiser, danced around it, biting at it like a pair of wolves  attacking a grizzly bear. But attrition, skill— and a little luck— handed a victory to the bear. Even as the cruiser was cloaking and heading for the magnetic poles of the planet to seek shelter for making repairs, when what should breach the atmospher but a freighter full of troops, hot on the tail of a handful of military dropships.

            Wildcard responded like a mother bear would, should her cubs be threatened, and before the transport could complete its braking retro-burn, it was heading quickly planetside, once more— in a hundred thousand pieces. The skirmish had ended in favour of the Obsidian Daggers. But their victory proved a phyrric one, at best.

            For almost four days, the battered cruiser lay in a low orbit above the planet's northern pole, the crew doing its best to bring the ship back to at least a marignally combat-worthy status, before attempting to break orbit. Upon the completion of best possible repairs, the half-gutted unit had limped to the nearest station, where they could get more extensive patching up. Unfortunately, some of the ship's large, modular equipment slots had been thrashed to inoperable states during the fighting, and the DathKaran station stocked neither internal repair modules nor the much valued drone transponder that helped the 'Card sneak past unfriendly drone forces, forcing the unit to look elsewhere for replacement parts.

            The repairs, however, combined with the great losses to the sneak attack, had sapped the Daggers in financial ways, too. Reduced from near 200 members to a number in the mid-80s, the need to recruit replacements was painfully obvious. But the veteran mercenaries knew well that skill was a difficult enough purchase, and unit integrity and compatability was something that no amount of money could buy.  Their chagrin was heightened when they arrived on Peridon V, headquarters of the Bureau of Mercenary Affairs and Business. BMAB readily reminded them of the terms of the will as laid down by their late Captain, and temporarily suspended their registry. The lack of registration, even for only a few months, often spelled the death of even moderately-sized units like the Obsidian Daggers, since few, if any, employers would touch them, and generally, only the less-than-scrupulous crowd was willing to consider signing on with an unregistered unit.

            And so the the Obsidian Daggers found themselves between the proverbial rock and hard place: either disband, taking their (shaky) chances with the turbulent and terribly unpredictable world of the  disenfranchised mercenary, or take a completely untried civilian as their new Head.

            They chose option "B."

            Jared laid it all out, in a larger-than-average nutshell, and Matt ate up every last bit of it. When the story wrapped up with Jared's visit to Soliven (and an editted explanation of Cheif Ward Vralla's little car-chase), the poli-officer lapsed into silence. For some time, no one moved or said a word. The heat of the rising sun rolled into the living room in waves, but a stirring south wind brought the fresh, familiar scent of rain with it, promising a lovely, temperate morning. The quiet stillness was broken up only by the gentle, hollow hootings of the native whanfrey birds.

            The mood in the room was one of contemplation, mingled with shock. Matt's head still reeled, only now it was filled with more dreams than he ever dared believe possible. The fact that the Daggers had been so badly pounded filtered into his mind as a "cause" that only he could help. Suddenly, he was no longer Matt Sarray, backwoods rancher; he was Captain Matthew Sarray, saviour of what was destined to be the greatest mercenary unit of all time.

            "Lieutenant Commander Panocha," Matt asked abruptly, "Consider yourself a lucky man. When can we leave?"


	6. Inherit The Stars

Chapter 5- "Inherit the Stars"

            Jared Panocha actually found it difficult to keep a poker face on the journey to the spaceport. Solrennen, the planetary capitol and home of Soliven's largest spaceport, also happened to be closer to Tanner's Barn than any other city with a spaceport. By Matthew's own admission, the lad had never been to Solrennen in his memory, and Jared could almost taste the excitement his future captain's words were packed with. Matthew had tried to "play  it cool," pretending he was simply "interested," as opposed to downright thrilled, but Jared's ear knew tonal inflections better than most people knew his or her own face—this knowledge had proven a great boon in calling business bluffs—and the forty-five year old man found himself sharing in the excitement of discovery. Like watching your own child look at the stars or the first time. Only I can't watch.

            Tracker I was still in Tanner's Barn when Jared, Sheriff Borgerund and Matthew had arrived, along with one of the Dagger's marine corporals, who had been detailed to chauffer Jared and—with luck—the new commanding officer of the Obsidian Daggers. Introductions had gone smoothly, if a little heavy on the military formality, and Jared was pleased that at least one of the enlisted men was okay with this transition in leadership. Pleasantries out of the way, the rancher had bid his farewell to the sheriff, and stepped into the vehicle. He had surprised Jared, however, when he had tapped the driver on the shoulder, and asked him to "make a little detour." Something about an "old friend."

            The detour had been made, and Matthew stepped out for about ten minutes, give or take. Jared had no idea what his boss-to-be had done, in those few minutes, but further conversation with the boy showed him to be in a much happier mood. The political officer had merely shrugged, and was glad to hear Matthew sounding so pleased. It certainly made for a more talkative ride to the Capitol, though there were still long stretches of silence.

            Two hours later, the military hovercar had reached the outskirts of the city; Jared knew things were definitely going the way he had willed them to go.

            _Where are they?_ Gail glanced at her watch, yet again. The mapping software had put the drive time at just over two hours, and she knew that Tracker I didn't exactly crawl, either. It had been twelve hours since Lancer 3rd Class Ylaran and Lieutenant commander Panocha had made for whatever rodeo this Matt Sarray kid was supposed to live at. _Funny—his name almost sounds like Matt "Sorry." I sure hope he's got_ something _redeeming about him_.

            The sun had long since passed its apex, and had taken an unusually quick slide down the other side of the sky (Soliven, she had learned, only had a 21-hour day) before fading into twilight behind the horizon, lighting up the sky with a brilliant palette of evening colours. Gail, for one, was glad she could even _see_ the star Celus, when the evening had come,  since most of day had been shrouded in dense, intermittent rain. She had initially sequestered herself in the main terminal of the spaceport, though the drag of time had led her to begin wander about the place. It bothered her that she would feel any need to wander. Patience was part of being an effective soldier, and twelve hours wasn't _really_ all that long. She wasn't exactly curious about the world Soliven, either. But wander she did, and wonder she did at her wanderlust.

            Her meanderings had taken her all over the spaceport, and even out to the launching platform that had been assigned to the dropship that had brought her planetside. She acted as if she were performing a routine pre-launch inspection (though a thorough one would have been conducted just prior to launch, anyway), and then made her way back to the terminal. Aimlessly walking its halls, she had come across a cute little café, which was just quaint enough to appeal to her hidden "girly" side.     

 There were many things she'd never, openly admit about herself, and one of them was that she still appreciated her femininity, including finding things "cute" or "adorable." While she doubted anyone would have questioned such things, she was certain she'd lose respect among the crew if she were to ever really let her natural woman loose, and she wasn't sure she wanted to endure the snickers and jokes about "too many pair of shoes," or about "whether or not her new blouse matched her eyes." This was not to say she had no fashion sense, merely that being in charge of a military unit left no time for prancing and giggling. Even her hair had been bobbed to just above her collar, though she had managed to work it into something that, while still functional, was attractive. Makeup, however, was completely out of the question. Looks had no bearing on command ability, and the time spent in "putting on one's face" could easily serve much better purposes on a warship. Nonetheless, a small, dark piece of her mind stored all the information that mentally differentiated females from males.

When she had first entered the café, she had purveyed the menu, seen nothing of interest, and left to roam the tarmac again for another hour or two. The earlier rain, while it had been somewhat annoying, had lent a tremendous freshness to the air. The spring evening was surprisingly warm. Gail found herself wishing she had at least worn another shirt under her "civilian camouflage," which consisted of a loose, gray sweatshirt with the Daggers' logo on the back, and a pair of baggy khaki pants that covered her beat up running shoes. _Wish I could just lose the sweatshirt and feel a bit more of the breeze. At least his planet has something good about it. Where is this kid, anyway? I hope Jared's not joyriding with him, or something. I told him to come straight to the spaceport. They'd have contacted me if anything serious had happened._

Gail sighed, and turned her thoughts back to the wonderful ambience of the spaceport. She had noticed that, while Solrennen was a city of notable size, and while the spaceport was definitely large enough to count as an "interstellar" port, there was remarkably little traffic this evening. The midday had seen plenty of ships coming and going, but with the darkening sky came fewer vessels of any kind. She mentally discarded the trivia, and decided it was time to grab a bite to eat. _Maybe I should just buzz Jared, first_. She whipped out the small, handheld communicator, as she walked back toward the little eatery, and punched in the code to put her in touch with the _Wildcard_.

"_Denniman here. What can I do for you, Captain?_"

"Mister Denniman, I was wondering if you could patch me through to Commander Panocha?"

"_Connecting now, sir. Connection established and secure. He's all yours_."

"Thank you Mister Denniman," and with that, he signaled his connections termination.

"Commander? Mind giving me a little sitrep," she asked, using the old, military abbreviation for "situation report."

There was no answer. She repeated her question twice more before the voice of her political officer came across the channel.

"_Apologies for the slow response, Sub-Captain. My comm unit Was tucked in a bag, and I had to fish it out_."

_Did he just call me "sub"-captain_, she asked herself. "Fine, fine, Mister Panocha. Now, how about filling me in on why it is you're taking so long in getting here?"

Jared sounded unusually nervous as he answered, "_Captain? May I contact you in a short while? I have some…things… I need to take care of, right at the moment, and they are rather pressing_."

"What 'things'?"

"_I will brief you later. Apologies. Panocha out_." And with that, the line was cut.

"What in this galaxy is he doing? He didn't even tell me where he was," she muttered to herself. "I bet that kid's gone and done something stupid, like steal Tracker I, or something. Joy."

She shook her head, and looked up, just as she finished passing through the small, tree-adorned outdoor eating area attached to the café. She stepped through the door, and glanced around for a seat. Finding plenty, she opted to grab a stool at the bar, and get herself a bite to eat.

She had barely sat placed her order when she felt a pair of eyes focused on her. Sensing no malice, she kept her gaze intent on the counter in front of her, while she waited for her cup of givney to arrive. The host brought out the steaming cup of green liquid, and she huddled over it as a homeless man would huddle over a fire in the winter.

The eyes were still there.

_I don't need this_.

She continued to ignore the stare, and thanked the host when he placed her sandwich in front of her. She bit into it, and was just admiring its taste when someone sat down next to her. Here goes.

"Er, hey, um, miss? I couldn't help but notice you, and I was just wondering if maybe you and I could chat a bit, seeing as we're already eatin' together, and all. I mean, pretty ladies like you don't pop up every day. 'Specially around these parts."

_For the love of a tree sonda_. She rolled her eyes, but didn't so much as look at him. While she was certain she was putting out very strong "I'm not interested please leave me alone" vibes, he took her lack of a "no" to mean a "please continue kind sir," apparently. Gail put down the sandwich, and reached for the givney instead. She might need the rush to get her through this one.

"You know," he continued, sidling to the edge of his barstool, "I've never actually been to Solrennen before. But I've gotten to look around the place, see the sights, you know. I, um, noticed some really great looking restaurants over in the Parshall District, and I was wondering if, you know, we could, um… get something a little classier to eat? My treat?"

She sighed heavily and turned to look at him. He was nothing special, though she had to admit that he wasn't all that terrible to look at, either. Thick, coffee-coloured hair was literally flopped on top of a sunburned—but well-defined—face, and mud-brown eyes peered out at her from under moderately bushy eyebrows. The set of his jaw left no doubt he was probably a local, but at the same time, it wasn't slack, surprisingly enough. He was clad in a simple, pin-stripped plaid shirt, some work jeans, and some military-issue boots, and looked to be in his late teens, at best.

As he sat there, hunched over in her direction, she could also make out an innocent nervousness on his face, and she guessed he was a newby when it came to "hitting on chicks."

"I saw some, uh, really cool things, today, as I ran around this town—things loads cooler than anything 'round my place—and some of them really wowed me. But, um," and with that he edged rather dangerously into her personal space, "You're the best thing I've seen in as long as I can remember."

She gently set down the small mug of hot givney, and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She grinned like a wolf in sheep's clothing and asked, "And just how many women do you take to dinner in an evening?"

The stranger flushed, and said, "Um, gee, gotta say you're the first one I've ever even asked, really."

Her smile tightened. "That's about what I thought," she said in a satisfied tone. "Look, junior, how about starting with the local girls first, huh? I bet they're nice and easy to su.cker."

The kid was taken aback, and worked his jaw for a few moments before he managed to get any words out. "Well, um, gee, miss, but you're really a looker, and I, uh, don't mean any harm. I mean… I just wanted, you know, to, um, eat and, uh, er…"

With veiled mockery in her eyes, and a dose of patronizing in her voice, she cut him off. "Go back to school, kid. Your mommy might be wondering where you are. It's not time for you to play with the big girls right now, okay?" With that, she patted him on the head the way one would pat a five-year old who was looking for reassurance, and then called over to the host for a "to-go" box and mug.

A minute later, with the hard-luck lover-boy still trying to stammer out some clever comeback, she thanked the host, dropped a credit on the counter, and walked back out to the dropship to await the much anticipated call from Jared, which was most likely one of the most important calls in her career; if this Sarray bum had screwed things up, her whole life, as she knew it, was about to take a dive down the toilet.

_I can't_ believe_ I was such a_ moron_!_ Matt slammed his head down on the plastic countertop. _And I even got a_ kiss _off Gerila! I couldn't even get _dinner _with this girl. What was I thinking, thinking I knew how to handle women. Gerila was probably just being nice because she knew she'd never have to see me again. I am such an idiot!_

When he realized he had become lost in the spaceport, Matt had figured it was best to just stake out one spot, and stick there until Jared and Lancer Whatever His Name found him. Since he'd had no way of telling just how long he'd be lost, and since no information booths were recognizable, he decided that the best place to stay would be one with food. And so he had randomly followed a corridor until he noticed a sign, above one of the spaceport's many in-house shops, that read, "Chuck's Café and Grille." Feeling as if he could buy the whole place (after all, he had 500 _million_), he marched on in, trying not to act like the king he suddenly felt himself to be. Money aside, he was still feeling his oats from his brief—but memorable—visit to the home of the Crow's Nest evening barmaid. He'd looked her up in the local directory (she was one of those who actually had a telephone), asked her if he could drop by, and then had the merc take him to her place. While he was in and out in about ten minutes, he had laid his whole soul on the line, including the feelings he had for her, built up over the past several years of watching her at the bar.

She had seemed incredibly flattered, and then (much to his delight), very crestfallen when he said he had to leave immediately. Gerila (as he had finally learned her name to be), stood there, trembling slightly, and he had simply taken her in an embrace and kissed her deeply (if tonguelessly). And, wonder of wonders, she had returned the kiss.

Matt hated to leave his "new found love," but destiny urged him onward, and with a hasty promise that he'd be back to visit, and that he'd "keep in touch," he made his exit, and then bounded down the hall of her small apartment building, whooping for joy.

The trip to Soliven's seat of government passed as if in a dream. Somehow, even with Gerila on his mind, he'd manage to hold a conversation with Mister Panocha, and though he couldn't recall much of anything that was said, he remembered two things: first, that Jared definitely had a way with words, and secondly, that there was a slight, uncomfortable familiarity in the way Panocha had spoken with him—almost as if the merc had known Matt his entire life. It hadn't fazed the love-struck Matt at the time, but it managed to lodge in his mind just enough that some part of his brain marked it as important.

Somewhere in the mists of his mind, he had also caught the assurances that the Obsidian Daggers would take care of packing his personal effects and transferring them to the _Wildcard_, as well as some mention of someone handling the selling of his farm. But it all paled in comparison to the sudden freedom and power he found himself basking in. He had money, he had a ship, and he had (sort of) a girl of his own.

Matt was still riding high when the soaring skyline of Solrennen popped up out of the plain, as the hovercar crested the largest hill in the area. He'd never been more than an hour from Tanner's Barn, in memory, and while Solrennen was only twice that distance from the town, Matt felt as though he were entering a whole different world. Skyscrapers did just what their name said they should. Streets were wide, paved and busy, and traffic signals were everywhere.

Shops of a wider variety than Matt had ever thought possible lined street after street, and while Matt still felt a sense of urgency to get to his new life aboard his own starship, he allowed himself a bit of indulgence, and asked if he could tour the Capitol before heading off-world for what might be a very long time. Jared agreed readily, and their driver pulled over and called up a map of the city.

Roughly seven hours later, Matt, who was "all toured-out", announced it was time to "get down to business." The trio had made its way to the spaceport. As the flat desert of black pavement came into view, Matt's jaw hung agape as he stared in awe at the sheer size of the Amassa Memorial Interstellar Spaceport —the first spaceport he'd ever seen, aside from what the vids showed. Clueless as to which ships were which, he was dumbfounded at the gargantuan size of the two-score ships parked either in cavernous hangars or on launching pads the size of his ranch.

He marveled at the plethora of paint schemes that gleamed dully in the fading sunlight, and was stunned to see as many different company markings as there were ships.

Many of the ships had weapon mounts, which really got the young mans' heart thumping, as he considered that _he_, "Captain" Matthew Sarray, might just one day find himself living a drama, locked in mortal combat in the vast depths of space.

When a ship actually did a low fly right over the hovercar, Matt cranked down the window as fast as the mechanism would go, and gazed up with undivided attention, stupefied as how such a behemoth could manage so graceful flight as this ship was conducting.

            His pleasant shock was enough to banish even the most pleasant of thoughts about Gerila. And it had been enough to cause him to lose track of his chaperones, once inside the terminal.  And so he had found himself passing an hour in "Chuck's," munching absently on the house special, mind ablur with too many thoughts of too grand a scale for him to even begin to process, when…she appeared.

Matt wasn't sure exactly what had made him look up at when he had, but he immediately knew he'd never regret it. Lost in a vision, he ignored the few, annoyed glances he got when he dropped his food on his plate, with a clatter. She…was…perfect. Even before he could make out any facial features, he could just _feel_ a presence—almost an aura—about her. In fact, silhouetted as she was by the dying sunset, she looked to have more of a halo than the Taenarians were fabled to have.

As she stepped into the soft light of the café, her face was finally unmasked. Birds sang, trumpets blared, choirs sang, and crowds cheered.

_By…the…Taenarians…_ was all he could think. His eyes caressed her short, strawberry-blonde hair. His heart leapt at the sparkle in her emerald eyes, set like jewels just above her perfect cheekbones. The woman's face was so strikingly beautiful that he wondered how anything could be _that_ lovely. Her figure, unfortunately, was too well covered for his immediate fantasy, and Matt had to mentally chide himself for unthinkingly undressing her with his eyes. But he knew that she _must_ be a slender slip of a female, and was certain that the rest of her body matched the face.

            And then she sat down just four stools away. _Life_…was…perfect. 

It had taken a few moments to recover from the initial wave of emotion, but Matt, having found himself recently very victorious in the arena of getting females, stepped into this new ring, and metaphorically "put on his gloves." _Sorry Gerila. Hope you don't take this personally. Besides, it wasn't as though we were actually together, or anything._

Putting on as smooth an air as he could muster, he made his move.

It hadn't taken her four minutes to take his perfect, unbreakable world of bliss and power, and blast it into more pieces than there were stars in the sky. And just as quickly as she had walked in, she was gone, leaving him stammering like a drunken idiot amidst stifled chuckles and pained looks of sympathy from some of the other males, host included.

"Mister Sarray, Sir! So glad we found you!" The voice wasn't all that familiar, but his called name grabbed his attention and began, slowly, to haul him out of his new well of misery. Matt looked around to see who had spoken, and noticed Lieutenant Commander Panocha standing just outside the café, while the Kitaran marine that had driven them around town, was coming toward him, looking somewhat stricken.

"Mister Sarray, sir? How long have you been here? We've searched the better part of this facility, trying to find you. I must say that the Commander is not amused; in fact, I don't think I've ever seen him this worried before."

"Huh? What?" Matt sat back on his stool and blinked at the felinoid mercenary. His brain was still tangle in the shattered mess that was a five-minutes Utopia, but the Kitaran appeared to be someone he felt should probably recognize. "Um, I know you, don't I?"

The other man nodded quickly. "Lancer third class Ylaran, sir, at your command."

Matt returned the nod automatically, and then stepped off the stool. "I, um, you're one of, um, them, right?"

"The Daggers, sir? Yessir."

"So," Matt added, slowly, casting a longing look at the back door at the restaurant, "You, um, want me to come with you, right?"

"Yessir. Sir, might I speak freely," the Lancer asked, face revealing nothing in the way of emotion.

Matt waved a "yes," and the shorter being continued. "Are you…alright, Mister Sarray?"

Matt looked back at the Kitaran as if at a blank wall, and blinked twice more. "Um, yeah. Sorry. I'm just…distracted." He thought he heard the Kitaran mutter something that vaguely sounded like "obviously," but let it go without a thought. "So, then, um, let's go."

"Right this way, sir." Matt allowed himself to be led by his charge back to Commander Panocha, who was already speaking into a palm-sized communicator.

Matt had no idea of how much time it had actually taken to reach the berth that cradled the dropship he was told would be their ride to the orbiting port. But then, he really didn't care, either. By now, night had fully settled in, and only the dim lights around the launch pad lent any illumination to the moderately-sized aerodyne craft. Smashed ego and low light aside, Matt found another wave of emotion building inside him as the realization that he was actually _going into space_ dawned on him. The day had certainly been a day of red-letter "firsts." Not only had he gotten to see the Capitol, but now, he was getting to see his _whole planet_ in a way only space travel would allow.

A brief concern about lack of training raised its head, but Matt quelled it (and his disappointment at having failed to snag a vision of a woman) with renewed thoughts of excitement. Now that he was at liberty to roam the stars, he was positive he'd be able to find other women that equaled—or even surpassed—the beauty he had seen in "Chuck's." If nothing else, he had statistics on his side.

The black hovercar of the Obsidian Daggers came to a gentle stop, just behind the drop shuttle, and through his open window, Matt could already feel the heat emanating from the main thruster ports on the tail end of the shuttle. _Is this… it_ is!_ It's a Gerard and Lund Mark VI all-purpose landing craft! These things are top-of-the-line! I get to ride one of _these_?! Sweet!_ He chuckled as he realized that all his "peeping" at the various space-going vessels contained in his "Starships Today" magazine had actually paid off. The recognition of the Mark VI was almost automatic, and his mind reeled off sundry specifications, including details about probable powerplants, thrust ratings, maneuverability, armament, etc.

Matt turned to face the area the magazine had shown as the location of the retractable landing ramp, and, as if commanded by that very act, a large, square portion of the ship split from the main body of the shuttle with a hiss, and the edge nearest the aft swiveled down to greet the concrete pad.

Blue light flooded from the interior of the ship, but its pallor was easy to adjust to, and Matt knew that blue lighting was preferred at night and during combat, for just that reason. Weak lighting aside, Matt could still make out many of the features of the ship with ease. He took stock of the small arms latched to the walls behind the simple dropseats lining the bulkhead. He noticed several storage lockers just beyond the seats on his left, and a bin marked "vehicle spare parts" a short shift past the seats on the right side of the ship.

He went on cataloguing the sights as the hovercar glided languidly up the ramp, thrill after thrill greeting his eyes. He recalled that the military had been known to use dropships such as this one for hauling entire platoons of troops, along with some supporting vehicles, and was amazed to actually see that the Mark VI was, indeed, large enough to fit several small hovercars, or perhaps even a full-sized battle tank.

"Well, Matthew, we're here. This is the dropship ODS _Plunging Brick_, and she's fast enough to get us to the station in just over an hour." Even as Panocha was speaking, Matt could see him undoing the expanded restraints that held him secure inside the dark vehicle. The Kitaran was doing the same, and Matt hurriedly followed suit.

Once outside the hovercar, Panocha called across to Matt, "We don't have much time for formal introductions, here on the planet, but we'll try to arrange something on the _Wildcard_, if that's alright with you." Matt noticed the floor begin to rise underneath him, and had to catch his balance before replying.

"Sure thing. Whatever works. I'm still new at this, so I'll just let you take care of it." He found himself having to raise his voice considerably, as the deck of the ship rumbled with the thunder of thrusters roaring to life. The cargo/troop ramp had been almost entirely secured, and automated clamps had locked the hovercar to the deck.

"We best get to the command center and get strapped in. Doesn't look like Watchman Kardon wants to wait for us."  Matt nodded at the blind man, and started for the lift shaft, keeping step behind Lancer Ylaran.

The ship was airborne by the time the doors of the lift whooshed open at the rear of the dropship's small "bridge". Matt was pointed to a relatively comfortable looking seat, and almost bodily threw himself into it, hands grasping for the safety harness. The dropship hit flight altitude within moments of lift-off, and Matt listened intently to the radio chatter between the pilot and spaceport ground control. It occurred to him, just then, that not only was this his first time in space, it was his first time _flying_, even, and his stomach pounded that idea home as the shuttle reached the end of the "limited speed zone," at which point it suddenly lurched up and ahead, racing for the stars, it's "take-off" drives kicking into violent life.

While Matt was glad he was facing forward, and while he enjoyed the view out of the c0ckpit viewport, he had to shut his eyes to keep them from feeling as though they were going to be squished like grapes. Five-gees of acceleration had sandwiched him back into his seat, and his face felt as though the skin would be torn clean off, any moment.

Blood pooled in his rearmost areas, and he struggled to breathe, fighting what felt like a two-ton weight that was set squarely on his torso. Any thoughts of love, adventure, or excitement were blasted by the notion that his first trip into space might just be the death of him. For 15 agonizing minutes, the dropship burned hard away from the planet Matt had called "home" since before he could rightly recall (he knew from his grandfather, that he had come to Soliven at age 3), and Matt found himself invoking whatever powers may be, for his life.

            Just as Matt was ready to surrender to the titanic forces of lift-off, the ship's speed curve leveled off, and the giant hand that had been crushing him let off noticeably. That didn't stop the shaking, though, and now that his stomach and esophagus could expand, once more, he involuntarily shared "Chuck's special-of-the-day" with the wall next to him. But he was both too relieved and too pre-occupied to care about the mess.

            Eventually, the ship easily poked its way through Soliven's atmosphere, and, after a series of course-correcting vector thrusts, Matt found not only the weight of lift-off gone, but also any and all pretenses of gravity. Lieutenant Commander Panocha, who had obviously experienced these kinds of events (as he seemed to have handled his greater bulk with even greater control), unfastened the straps that held him to his flight couch. Two or three others were also free-floating, now, including Ylaran, who was floating toward the space-virgin rancher. His life no longer appearing to be on the brink of death, Matt's sense of propriety kicked in, and he blushed at the vomit that was now starting to clump and drift around the cabin in odd, undulating spheres.

            Ylaran produced a small device from a storage locker next to Matt, and activated it, sucking in a nearby wad of lost lunch. Matt watched the Kitaran gracefully chase down and clean up all his mess, after which he wordlessly returned to his side, and nodded in the direction of the rear of the bridge. Matt correctly assumed he was being directed to the toilets.

            Rather than waiting for the young man to find his space legs and figure out how to maneuver in zero-g, the marine simply wrapped his arms around Matt's torso, and slowly, but steadily, kicked off from a wall. Matt nearly lost it a second time, but managed to make it to the washroom, and endure the hasty but informative instructions on how to use the facilities, before emptying the remainder of his stomach's contents.

            As he hung in space, feeling ready to pass out and die (or at least, something similar, if not as dramatic), Ylaran shared a sympathetic smile. "Happens to all of us, sir, our first time up. That kind of acceleration takes some real getting used to. I hope you're alright, sir."

            Matt nodded weakly. "Thanks, Ylaran. Um, what should I call you, anyway?"

            "Lancer third Class Ylaran, sir, will work just fine. Or, sir, simply 'Ylaran.' I'm just one of the marines, if you'll recall, sir."

            "No given name, like, 'Mike,' or 'Bob,' or 'Wantango,' or something?"

            "No sir. We marines go by clan names—surnames, sir. It's just the way it is."

            "So… can you tell me your given name, or is that not allowed?"

            "My parents gave me the name 'Fyrana,' sir. If you would prefer to call me by that name, it is your right."

            Matt was too weak to argue, and waved away the notion of using a different name. "Nah. I know you as 'Ylaran,' and that's just fine. Thank you for you help. By the way, I've never met a Kitaran before today. You do your race proud, Ylaran'."

            Matt caught the hidden note of pride as the Lancer smartly saluted, and said, "Sir, I do my best, sir."

            Matt saluted back, and realized that it felt good to pay dues to this military man in a military manner.

            "Enjoying your trip, son," broke in the basso voice of Jared Panocha, who was now hovering just to the side of the washroom.

            "It is too late to ask to go home," Matt asked, grinning sheepishly. Jared and Matt shared a chuckle.

            "Come with me, Matthew. Lancer Ylaran and I will show you around the ship. It won't be quite the 'grand tour' you'll get when we reach the 'Card, but it's a start, and I have a feeling you'll appreciate it."

            Matt nodded vigourously. "You have no idea! Where do we start?"

            "How about right here," Jared asked, sweeping an arm behind him.

            "Sure. Can I check out the controls?"

            "'Fraid not, sir," the pilot said, answering for Jared. "With all due respect, Commander Silvestri and I are a bit busy, though I'll be glad to show you later."

            "Thanks. I'll take you up on that," Matt replied. He turned back to Jared, and in a hushed voice asked, "Commander Silvestri? Who's that?" A hand quickly appeared over the top of one of the high-backed pilot's chairs, disappearing just as abruptly. Matt's eyes caught the motion, and he noted that whoever had waved, had no problems with their hearing.

            "Commander Gail Silvestri, a.k.a. Sub-captain Silvestri, a.k.a. _Captain_ Silvestri, until now, is the second in command of this whole company. She was your uncle's personal adjutant before his death, and she'll be your right hand too, now that you're assuming command. Unless, of course, you'd rather appoint someone you're more familiar with. It is your right."

            "You mean I can choose you as my second-in-command?" Jared's head signaled an affirmative, and Matt hastily added, "Then I chose you as…"

            "Not so fast, please, Matthew," Jared said, cutting the younger man off. "First, you're not even _officially_ in command. At least, not as far as the bureau is concerned. We need to register you with them, by the way."

            "'Bureau'," Matt asked, arching an eyebrow.

            "The Bureau of Mercenary Affairs and Business, more commonly called 'BMAB,' since it's short. Anyway, as I was saying—and as I guess I should also say—things around here are a team effort. You will be assuming command, but don't fool yourself into thinking that you are the supreme ruler of the unit, or you'll find yourself without a unit in no time flat." Matt licked his lips and nodded in agreement.

            "How about you and I step into the corridor for a moment. Lancer? Meet us in the main bay. We'll be down briefly." The Marine saluted crisply, and made his way back to the lift.

            Matt clumsily pushed, pulled, and bumped his way into the corridor, following the bulkier man's exit. His stomach was feeling better, and once he was out in the cramped corridor that ran alongside the bridge, he began experimenting with his fledgling abilities to "fly."

"See, Matthew," Jared resumed, "Gail is a skilled officer. She has been with the Daggers for four years now, and has more seniority than many of the enlisted men combined. I've been with the unit since 20147, about three years after it got going under your uncle. Anyway, that's a story for later.

"As I was saying, Commander—and she'll be resuming that title once you are registered and properly recognized as Captain—Silvestri knows her business, and she gets respect. I've seen—well, heard, anyway—how she handles herself in all manner of situations, and I'll tell you, I've seen monster dams that are more likely to crack under pressure than that woman. She's smart, she's tough and she's…" Jared's voice trailed off.

"She's…" Matt prodded.

"She's… nevermind. I shouldn't be saying those kind of things about a superior."

"If this I something I need to know, I want to hear it. Can I order you to tell me?"

"Technically, no. Not as of right now, anyway."

"How about just asking nicely? For the sake of my new job?"

Jared sighed and rubbed hand across his thick lips. "Do you promise not to let this information affect how you treat her?"

"Sure thing. I mean, I try not to be prejudiced. I'm sure she's nice and all, but honestly, if there's something that might mess with her being second-in-command, I'd like to know."

Jared's head went up and down, and he sucked in a small breath. "Although I've no eyes to see it, I've heard from plenty of the crew that Gail isn't terribly unattractive. Your uncle was a lonely man, Matthew, and he never managed to marry. His need for…female companionship was still there, though and…"

"He _slept_ with her?" Matt couldn't believe what he was hearing. Skill aside, he was not about to have an officer under him that was willing to sell themselves like that, just for sake of gaining rank or power. Then and there, Captain Matthew Sarray set his mind that he would _not_ allow himself _any_ interest in this wench that used her body to rise to the top of the Obsidian Dagger's command structure.

It was Panocha's turn to lick his lips. "I'm not saying that, Matthew. What I _am_ saying is that your uncle Sterling's judgment may have been…coloured… by her. She has done a satisfactory job, but—and please don't take this the wrong way, either—she failed in her last attempt to negotiate a contract for us, leaving us jobless for a time.  I think there's a reason your uncle chose me to be the political officer; without boasting, I've landed the Dagger's most of the jobs we've had, since coming on board.

"Gail's good, but there were times I wondered how much of your uncle's desire to have a woman close at his side had factored in to her appointment as his 'personal' adjutant."           

"That's it, then. I'm choosing you as my…"

Jared held up his hand, cutting Matt off yet again. "Matthew, consider that there are just the two of us in this hall. Who's to say I can't just walk onto that bridge and tell everyone I now outrank them, and that I wouldn't simply be lying to them?"

"I'll tell them. Right now, even," and he started back for the door.

"Matthew, no! Put this in writing. If you really _do_ want me as your first officer, let's make this official; do it over your signature, and in a way that even BMAB can't deny."

Matt found himself agreeing. "You're right, you're right. Let's make this something official. And as soon as we're on the _Wildcard_, I'll make the announcement about the change, and you will get the spot I'm guessing you should have had all along."

"Shall I keep this 'hush-hush,' Captain?"

"I like surprises, sure. I won't say anything before then, if you don't." Jared bowed his large head in agreement. "Now, where do we find those papers?"

"Right this way, Captain," Panocha said, pointing beyond himself.

And with that, they made their way to the small wardroom that graced the dropship.

"Commander Panocha? Could you please report to the bridge with Mister Sarray? We're on final approach to Port Soliven."

"_On my way, sub-captain. Mr. Ylaran and I have just completed the tour of the ship. We'll be there shortly_."

"Thank you Mister Panocha. Silvestri out."

            Gail let out a breath, and turned to Watchman Kardon. "So, you think this kid will kill us? Feel free to speak freely, Watchman."

            "Just because he ralphed on take-off? No, why?"

            "I mean, the fact that he, apparently, hasn't even flown before, from his reaction to just getting in the air? I could be shooting in the dark, but I could hear someone racing to get buckled in. And I'm sure that wasn't Ylaran or Panocha."

            "Do you always worry this much about your future commanders, Captain?"

            "I've only ever had two, and Sterling Lanza was no newby at this."

            "Point taken, Captain. Honestly, sir, I think we'll survive, even if our new commanding officer isn't all that settled into the saddle."

Gail chewed on her lower lip as she thought. "We really don't have any comprehensive data on this Sarray kid, do we, Watchman?"

The pilot hazarded a glance at his commanding officer. "Sir, I believe you would know more about what intelligence we have than I would, if you'll pardon me saying as much."

Gail just nodded. "Sorry, Watchman. I was thinking aloud, in the form of a question. You'll have to forgive me for being a bit…"

            "Concerned, sir? Distracted?"

            "Yes. That's it exactly." She turned to face the junior officer. He kept his face forward, alternating between looking at his instruments and looking at the stars. "How did you know?"

            Watchman Kardon just smiled. "Sir, you are an excellent commander. I would expect nothing less that for you to be concerned about the people you're in charge of."

            Gail had to unexpectedly fight a blush. "Um, thank you, Mister Kardon. It's nice to know that the crew has such a high opinion of me."

            "Only the highest, sir."

            "Meaning what?" She hadn't meant to sound snappish, but from the way Kardon flinched, she could tell that her desire to ferret out the truth behind the rumours that the crew thought she was attractive had bled through into her voice a bit much.

            Kardon maintained a forward gaze, but it was clear that he had been taken aback. "I only mean to say, Captain, that you've proven your skill in combat and command, and that we've no reason to doubt you. I meant no offense, sir. We all respect and admire you, sir."

            "So," Gail probed, "Are there any…other…reasons I seem to get this 'admiration', Mister?"

            Now it was his face that flushed. He tugged just slightly on his collar and scratched at the back of his neck as he began to answer, "I'm sorry, Captain, but if you're trying to get me to make a certain point, then I'll have to admit I have entirely lost as to what it is. If there's something seriously bothering you, I'm willing to entertain a more direct question, sir."

            Gail ran her tongue across her upper teeth, as she debated whether or not to just ask flat out. So lost in thought was she, that she missed the hissing sound that marked the opening of the lift door.

            "Tell me, then, Watchman," she asked slowly, "Do you find me… attractive?"

            Kardon's knuckles were white, as he gripped the control yoke, a drowning man clutching for a life preserver of any kind. His face oscillated between being bone white and crimson. She heard him swallow hard, and he stammered as he spoke. Gail felt a pang of guilt and an instant sympathy for the young Derivian.

            "Um, er, I, well, sir…" he started. "With, um, all due respect, um, Captain, I, um…"

            Gail jumped in and saved him from his misery. "Thank you, Watchman, that will be all. I was just… never mind. Perhaps we'll discuss this later."

            "Um, yessir, Captain, sir. Later. No, um, rush, Captain."

            Just then, the lift opened again, and Lieutenant Commander Panocha drifted in, along with Lancer Ylaran. Gail didn't bother to turn to watch them come in. She assumed the new captain was with them. Though part of her burned to find out just who it was she was trusting both her future and her life with, the shuttle was only minutes out of dock. And while Watchman Kardon was good enough to have brought them in without a problem, Gail had requested the position of co-pilot, for this "mission," since she had always enjoyed piloting, and since this trip was not "combat critical," as it were. Nonetheless, she was intent on a flawless performance, even with something as seemingly mundane as just docking a dropship.

            _Might as well have fun, this trip. Feh, the only reason I even came along was in case Panocha ran the kid off again. I hate having to be a last resort_.

An unexpected call pulled her out of her musings. "Captain Sarray? Ah, good. You managed to find your way back to the bridge." It was the voice of Lancer Ylaran. "I'm sorry to have detained the lieutenant commander like that, but I needed to discuss some requests for the quartermaster."

            _Wait a minute_, Gail thought, _Sarray was on the bridge this whole time? This is good. I can't believe I didn't hear him come in._ Gail made to turn around and explain things to the kid, but Watchman Kardon demanded her attention right then.

            "Captain Silvestri, ma'am, I mean, er, sir? I'm showing a bit of skew in the ship's attitude indicators that doesn't match with the visuals. Can you, um, confirm that, sir?"

            _Gotta nip this one in the bud, but I guess it'll have to be after we dock_.  Gail checked and double checked her instruments, determined that there was a minor glitch, and put a note into the computer to have the techs take a look at it. By now, the port was looming large in the viewport, and the dry dock that held the _Wildcard_ wasn't too far beyond it. Gail would need all her attention for docking since she had asked the Watchman to allow her a manual landing, "to keep the old skills honed."

            "Strap yourselves in, people. We're about to make dock. ETA four minutes. "

_Jared was right about her!_ Matthew's tour had been the cherry on top of a fabulous day (major downturn notwithstanding). Just as Jared was filling Matt in on the troop-carrying capacity of a Gerard and Lund Mark VI shuttle, a call had come from the bridge, instructing them to take up positions for docking. Lancer Ylaran had requested a moment of Panocha's time, and had given Matt the relatively simple directions back to the bridge. While it had taken him time (and given a few bruises in the process), Matt wrangled his way through "null-o" as it was often termed, and into the single, small lift.

He stepped onto the bridge just in time to hear Commander Silvestri attempting to seduce the pilot. When she terminated the discussion immediately thereafter, Matt assumed she had heard him come in, catching her red-handed. He opted to say nothing, and even beat back the urge to float over and confront her, face-to-face. _Best not to argue in front of the lower ranked guys. Gotta let 'em see unity at the top of the chain._ He grumbled to himself, but turned and silently floated for his seat.

Moments later, Jared and Ylaran joined him on the bridge, and after a quick banter, they were strapping in.

"_Wildcard_ is on the dark side of the planet, Sir," Kardon said, out of nowhere. "Right now, she's not in the port's main dock, since she's slated for some repairs that ports just don't handle. In fact, sir, I might mention that we can essentially assume that ports _don't_ repair ships—especially heavy cruisers like the _'Card_—just in case you were wondering. Generally, they just don't have the facilities for it. We're lucky, though, since there's an independent "dry" dock that services vessels of almost all sizes, just past Port Soliven."

"Um, thanks," was all Matt could think to say. The entire day had been the largest, wildest roller-coaster he'd ever ridden. Things had started out sour, when Mark had come knocking at an annoyingly early hour (sleeping in was a rare luxury on all the farms and ranches Matt knew of), only to find that a blind guy that looked like a hired killer was on his doorstep, and that after a harrowing night that ended in a car chase. _Gonna need to buy Zren a new truck_.

From there, he'd suddenly been given everything he could ever have hoped for and more. He was rich, he had a military-grade starship, he had his own mercenary unit at his beck and call. And he'd even gotten some "lip action" from the apple of his eye.

And if all of that hadn't been enough, he'd gotten a V.I.P.-quality tour of his planet's capitol city, a visit to the amazing spaceport, and, lastly, a ride on a G&L _Mark VI_ drop shuttle. Yet there was more. In les time that he normally spent making breakfast, he would actually get to see and tour _his_ new ship! A capital ship that was second in size to only the largest of warships out there. _If only I hadn't screwed up that conversation with that… angel. By Shralla, she was _gorgeous. _Guess I still need some practice, then_.

The dropship passed over the port, obscuring the young man's view of it. _I guess I'll get to see it close up, some other time_. In the distance, he could barely make out a large, skeletal shape, hovering in space. Looking for all the world like the rib cage of a fallen giant, its presence was betrayed only by a few, blinking red and green lights, with a few pinpricks of white light scattered around.

"Dry dock five-five-seven-zulu, this is ODS _Plunging Brick_. We are inbound on your position, and request permission to dock with ODS _Wildcard_."

Matt turned his ears back to the front of the craft. _Here goes. I can't believe this is it!_ He strained against the chair's straps doing his best to lean forward for a better look. While the ominous black dock was growing quickly in size, Matt still could not discern his ship. _His_ ship! Elation flooded him at the mere thought.

"_This is the Dockmaster. We read you_ Plunging Brick. _Hold your course and speed, and stand by for instructions_."

"Plunging Brick copies, Dockmaster." Kardon switched the comm channel to standby, and addressed his new employer again. "Right now, sir, the dockmaster is going through standard docking security protocols. See, we could be anyone, so to guard against unauthorized docking, he's getting the _'Card's_ current commanding officer—that'd be Lieutenant Denniman at the moment—and making sure he's expecting us. Next the dockmaster will run some checks and scans, to make sure we are who we say we are. We'll be asked to transmit a password to him, which he'll also check, before sending it to the _'Card_.

"When everything checks out, they'll give us a docking vector, and we'll be as good as home."

"Seems a bit too complicated, this 'protocol' stuff. Why can't we just fly in and dock with the _Wildcard_? I mean it's _our_ ship, right?"?

"Yessir, she is. But when you first get a terrorist group sneaking aboard your ship in an attempt to steal her or blow her to pieces before she even leaves port, you'll start appreciating the protocol quite a bit more."

Matt made to ask if such a thing had ever happened to the _Wildcard_, but was interrupted by the crackling voice of the dockmaster. "Plunging Brick, _we have confirmation of your expectation. Requesting password now._"

The password was sent, the checks completed, and the clearance to dock given. Gail inputted the vectors in the computer, and Matt could see the fringes of a holographic HUD that was now floating in front of the pilots.

"Mister Kardon," sang Gail Silvestri's voice. "I have the wheel."

"Aye, sir. Captain has the wheel."

_That voice… I've heard that voice somewhere before._ Before he could puzzle out the origin of the rich, alto tones of his soon-to-be aide (Jared had convinced Matt to retain her as at least an adjutant, out of respect for her previous position, even if Jared was assuming the title "first officer"), she spoke again.

"_Wildcard_, this is _Plunging Brick_. We've nabbed some booty, and we're coming home."

Matt blinked at her slang, but had no time to wonder. "Plunging Brick, _this is the_  'Card. _Nice to see you again. Shuttle bay three awaits to receive you._"

"Roger, _Wildcard_." Matt heard a key stroke as Gail switched channels. "Dockmaster, this is _Plunging Brick_. Requesting lighting on ODS _Wildcard_."

"_Request received_ Plunging Brick. _We'll light her up for you_."

And then it happened. Row after row of floodlights the size of the _Brick's_ bridge flared to life in a sequential procession. Matt gaped as the parade of light tracked a long, bright course down the length of his new ship. All 637 jet-black metres of it.

"By Shralla," he whispered. "That's a frellin' _Pechanga_ class heavy cruiser. No… way. No. Way." Gun turrets the size of heavy freight trucks jutted out along the length of the monster. A half-dozen holes that looked large enough to swallow the dropship were also arranged on three, separate turrets, and Matt knew immediately that the ship had been upgraded. _A stock_ Pechanga _only has four missile ports. This one has six. That's a flat fifty-percent more firepower, right there! That'd put it on par with a stock battleship, numbers-wise._

The superstructure reminded the ex-rancher of some of the large corporate buildings he had seen on his trip through Solrennen. A handful of thin, white strips and points on the massive protrusion marked what he could only assume to be windows, and even his more conservative guesses left him in awe of the sheer magnitude of the ship.

Matt noted that even though the _Wildcard_ was only a few hundred metres away, and bathed by light, it was somewhat difficult to see. At first blush, Matt felt more as if he were simply looking at a dark "hole" that was floating in space. Only scattered running lights gave any, immediate delineation to the ship's outline. But the _Pechanga_ class of warships was easy to recognize by its "split-hull" shape, and Matt knew he had just been handed more power than even 500 million credits could buy.

In seconds, the dropship was swinging under the lower decks of the cruiser's prow. Matt gaped as its ponderous, muscular bulk soared over him, a great, black bird of prey ignoring the gnat that the shuttle was. As the shuttle cleared the underside of the ship, it swung up and into a rolling turn, as it headed toward the aft quarters of the ship. Surprisingly informed eyes guessed the shuttle's speed to be somewhere around half a klick a minute. Even at that moderate speed, it took just under a minute before the stream of light that marked the open shuttle bay was adjacent to them.

_Plunging Brick_ passed the bay, and made a wide, "one-eighty" to port. Right before the turn, however, the mammoth interstellar drives could be seen blocking the stars past the reinforced c0ckpit glass. They were nearly the size of the ships Matt had gawked at when he first saw Amassa Memorial.

The dropship made a sudden left turn, swinging it 90 degrees in under two seconds, and bringing it in line with the shuttle bay. Matt could see the twin strips of guide lights marching away from the mouth of the bay, as if beckoning the shuttle to come to them. The _Brick's_ speed dropped to only a metre or two per second,  and as the shuttle slid into the bay, Matt suddenly had an idea of what it was like to be swallowed whole. An unusual sense of claustrophobia sifted through his mind, but passed quickly.

At last, as if it had been a production 21 years in the making, the dropship's landing gear touched down on the deck. Only a moment later, as clamps reached out to grab the shuttle, the bright white lights of the bay cut out, replaced by deep red ones. "Please stay put for just a moment, Matthew," Jared said. "The bay needs to pressurize. Right now, you should see some red lights. When they go white again—that should take about fifteen seconds—we'll go on out and let you get to know the ODS _Wildcard_"

Matt's head bounced to indicate his understanding, and he caught himself wondering why he was nodding at a blind man. "Right. Gotcha. Thanks. Red means stop, white means go. I can handle that."

"Panocha? Kardon and I need to stay here until at least one of the tech's arrive. Do you mind getting this kid…I mean…Mister Sarray situated," Gail asked, a note in her voice that Matt couldn't quite figure out. Matt wondered why she hadn't even peeked out from behind the seat to make the request. I am sure_ I've heard that voice before. I just…blast. Can't think straight._

"Understood. Come, Matthew. I know you're probably burning to meet Commander Silvestri, but business is business, and we'll try to arrange something more formal, as I promised.

            "Uh, formal. Right." The red lights went white once more, and Matt pulled off his harness. He followed his two escorts out of the dropship and then managed to drift over to the airlock they had aimed at.

            Once inside the ship, Jared was led down a womb-like side corridor. Piping, wiring, and control panels crowded into what little personal space there was, and Matt was amazed that Jared could even begin to manage squeezing through it all. Squeeze through he did, and at an impressive pace, too, his cane whirlwinding in front of him, rebounding off this panel, or that bulkhead, allowing him to dodge with much more grace than he looked capable of. _Not even a welcome mat? This wasn't exactly what I was hoping for. But then, Jared did say that I shouldn't expect much, right off the bat. At least this thing has artificial gravity._

            Just as his thoughts were being soured by a measure of disappointment, a door slipped out of their way, and into the wall. "In here, Captain," Ylaran Said. Matt followed the Kitaran though the door, Jared having made his way past it first. Stepping into a massive, poorly lit room, Matt wondered if some sort of surprise party had been planned for him, and if the little run through the corridor had been a diversion to give Gail time to get here ahead of him. Instead, Ylaran tripped a switch that turned the lights blue, and then simply said, "Look," as he pointed to the far wall, twenty metres away.

            Matt raised an eyebrow at the Kit, but turned his head anyway. And watched as the whole, 30-metre length of wall begin to drop out of sight beyond and below his feet. His first reaction was blind panic, as he noticed what appeared to be starlight, but he immediately dispelled the idea, reasoning that, if Panocha and Ylaran were trying to kill him, this was probably not the easiest way, especially given that they were in the room with him.

            The farmboy brought his breathing under control, only to have it snatched away by the view before him. The _Wildcard_ had seemed to define the word "gargantuan," but what he saw now was infinity incarnate. Tens of millions of stars filled the void. Nebulae hovered like misty angels, and galaxies spun like distant dancers. To his left, a small, blue, green and white ball hung silently in the cosmos. _Soliven. By Shralla_.

            "Welcome to life in space, Matthew," Jared said. With a sweeping gesture of his arm, he added, "This is your inheritance."


	7. Destiny's Doorsteps

**Chapter 6- "Destiny's Doorsteps"**

            The polished fabric felt rough across her skin as Gail slipped the shirt on and began buttoning it up. The formal meeting of the new Captain and the crew was set to take place in just over half an hour; and Gail still hadn't actually met the man. She had ridden with him all the way from Soliven to the _Wildcard_, heard his voice, once or twice, and even raised her hand to announce her presence to him. Yet something had always kept her from actually viewing the person that held her future in his untested hands, in more ways than she knew. She had to admit that sometimes, though, it had been herself that had held back on meeting him. While her professional side knew that she, as second-in-command, and as his personal adjutant, should be one of the first to actually make contact with a new Captain, the less-professional part of her was allowed to win out, and she managed to squeak by with this excuse or that.

            But now, there was no getting around it. _Time to bite this bullet_. Since the entire crew had been required to attend (save a select few), she was entirely stripped of any good excuse that might have. No more "running diagnostics," "checking with Quartermaster Fanthiyr," or "making sure the galley is prepared for tonight's banquet." No, it was showtime, and in a big way.

            _I mean, I guess it might not be so bad. Maybe he was tired when he was buckling in. Maybe he just wasn't expecting lift-off that soon. Maybe he actually knows something about commanding a starship? Maybe?_

_            Drig you, Sterling, for just up and leaving us. One note is all we got out of this. A piece of paper with nothing but letters to tell us how you felt. I spent four years on this ship, trying my very best _not_ to fall in love with you, and then you just had to make me your right hand person. So close. So close to you, and now so far. _

_            Did those last two years mean nothing? All that quiet time, just you and me? Those nights we spent, watching the stars, not saying a word, but saying more than any words could ever say_.

            A tear stung her eye, and she realised, to her chagrin, that she was crying. _Now look what you've done! Bad enough I have to let some punk kid fill your chair—your quarters— but now your very memory has made a mess of me. Didn't I tell you I didn't want closeness? Didn't I? That's why I left home in the first place, Sterling. They were too close to me, and they lost track of what was really good for me. It took me almost three years of being away before I could even have a civil conversation with mom again. _

_            Now what? My family is halfway across the galaxy, and it's not like I get to really see them every other day. And now even_ you  _are gone; only you're farther away than anyone can ever be._

            The tears were flowing in small streams down her face, and she could feel them vividly, cool rivers on the hot deserts of her cheeks. Her temples throbbed like the footfalls of a galloping horse, and her breathing was the rise and fall of ocean waves, long, low and deep. It was almost too much.

            _What is_ wrong _with me? I'm acting like a love-sick teenager here, not the captain of a mercenary unit_. Gail turned to the mirror, only to see him standing behind her. _Sterling?!_ She whirled to grab him— to hold him— only to find her lost love as fleeting as a stray hydrogen particle drifting through space.  She slammed an angry fist against a bulkhead, and choked back a fresh wave of tears.

            _Driggit! Driggit! Either come back completely or just leave me forever. Don't_ torment_ me like this! I tried so hard. So hard. So hard to just be a good little girl and help the crew out. Curse you and everything that made you so wonderful! You gave me a family, you gave me yourself, and then you take it all away and...and..._

            Four months had passed since that fateful day when Sterling Lanza had given the greatest sacrifice he could, in an effort to save his pride and joy. And his love. The time in between had been filled to brimming with business, business, business, leaving her zero time to even pretend to grieve. Jared had been right with his reminder that troop morale would suffer if they saw her even starting to buckle. And so, Gail Silvestri—with only 21 years to call her life— was left behind in favour of Captain Silvestri, the highly respected first officer of the Obsidian Daggers.

            Sterling had been over thrice her age, had more than seven times her experience, and had more charisma than most politicians. Gail had wondered why it was that Chief Ward Vralla had not been chosen to head up the Daggers, at Sterling's death, but even she had to admit that Sudhallas' skills—which were impressive— were too specialized toward the ground-pounder's task to really command everything else.

            Jared had a way with words, and was well respected, but he was totally out of his element when it came to waging war. Much the same could be said for the rest of the command staff. Each was proficient in his or her field, but really, it came down to Gail when the slot was opened for command. She alone had the appropriate experience, having served side-by-side with one of the more skilled merc leaders in BMAB's registry. No one questioned her appointment to Captaincy, and no one even expected that anyone else would be named for the job; at least in the interim. In fact, many had pushed to have her installed for the long term. But the will was legally binding, and the options precious few, and none appealing.

            And now it had come to this. A mere shadow was to replace the bright future that had been hers only months ago. The Daggers had been slowly growing, considering purchasing a second ship and the accompanying crew. Their reputation, while not quite "A1" class, was definitely on its way. On the home front, her relationship with her mom and sisters was on the up and up, and even her father was willing to speak to her.        And she knew that Sterling had done a little shopping for a...certain piece of jewelry.

            It had all been erased in the blink of an eye.

            A swift knock at the door was all it took to instantly discard the self-pitying little girl who has lost her lover, and replace it with the no-nonsense professional that the Obsidian Daggers had come to know as Commander/Captain Silvestri. Gail wiped her eyes, even as she was asking who it was at the door.

            "Itsssa me, Commandah. Da crew bein' all ready, an we be waitin' fa ya."

            "Noted, Chief. You go on down; I'll catch up soon."

            "Riiiiight, Commandah. Dat bein good plan. I'z be seein' ya, den."

            "Yeah. Right." And with that, she shot through the remainder of her preparations.

            The lift ride to "J" deck— the "lowest" crew deck of the ship—only took a minute or two, but coupled with the walk to the center of the deck, where the rec-room/assembly room was situated, it gave Gail plenty of time to think.

            "So, this kid wants to lead us, does he? Something tells me he's only here for the cash," she mumbled to herself. Gail wasn't a mumbler. Neither was she given to talking to herself; but there was just something sufficiently...unnerving... about the entire situation, that even if anyone _had_ been in the hallways, she probably would have gone on muttering, anyway.

            "Okay, so what do I know about this Sarray guy? First, he's a rancher with an apparently dying herd. Okay, he's already failed in the corporate sense. Second, he was a million and a half in the hole—as a private citizen. Failed financially. Third, he's a paranoid little bounder who lives alone, doesn't seem to have real friends or female, and had some locals beat up a blind guy. Social failure. What else?" She shook her head sharply, trying to clear her thoughts.

            "Don't do this, Gail. Gotta think positive. Circumstantial evidence; that's all you've got. Maybe he's really a nice guy. I mean, after all, he _is_ Sterling's nephew, so maybe it runs in the family. Maybe Jared's report was wrong— I mean, he admitted the information was sketchy, and he hasn't gotten the chance to fill me in since he met the kid.

            "Though he has no 'female friend', I still doubt he's likely to hit on me, regardless of what Panocha seems to think. At least, not like that sap in the cafe. Geez that guy was a loser. I've been more inclined to date _Zallun_ than that guy. That guy couldn't even pick up a handle, let alone a woman. Well, he's gone, and I'll never have to put him out of his misery again. Or even see him."

            Before she knew it, she was at the main door to the assembly hall. Through them, she could hear a military march being played, and raised her eyebrows at how "all-out formal" Jared was going for this. While she had been briefed on the proceedings, she had expected something a bit more simplistic, or at least, not as much fanfare. Then, Jared always was good at putting on a good show, and she recognized, at least for the sake of the crew, that this probably was the best way to go about the whole thing.

            She ceased her one-sided conversation, tossed aside the unpleasant memory of the loser in the cafe, and listened for her cue. Though she had to strain to hear it, Panocha's muffled voice announced her, and she tapped the button for the big double-doors, let them whoosh away to either side, and strode into the room. Walking up the centre aisle in perfect marching form, head high, back ramrod straight, she could feel the gaze of almost everyone in the room weighing on her, and she had to fight down the rising notion that they might not just be looking at her out of respect. _Gotta make Sterling proud_. With that thought, her chin came up slightly, and her eyes iced over. _Gotta make Sterling proud_.

            The music came to a crashing, majestic close, just as she reached the appropriate position—just to the right of the podium—and halted. She knew the metaphorical spotlight was squarely on her. Snapping a crisp about-face, she whipped off a salute to the troops, who all leapt to their feet and responded in the same precise manner. She took pride in knowing that while all of them were hired guns, many were ex-military, and even those who weren't had submitted to Sterling's military training programs, he having once been a part of the Derivian National Navy.

            "At ease. Be seated." They all sat, save for Gail, who settled into a parade rest stance, head still raised, face stripped of emotion. What remained was to be done was Gail's announcement of their new captain, followed by his entry. And then it was sink or swim. _So glad I'm not still sitting in that café. Here, at least, I know when the waiting will end, not to mention not having to endure lame company_.

            "Obsidian Daggers," she said, and she felt the pride swelling within her, despite the situation. "We are the blade that cuts without fail, the power that sunders when unsheathed. For fifteen years we have been the proud but silent blade, that was unswerving from its course to be the best of the best, and for fifteen years, our razor edge was honed and directed by our founder, Sterling Lanza." She paused, and did her best to give the appearance that it had been for dramatic effect, instead of her almost choking on his name.

            "But the strongest steel does not reach that strength without tempering. Time and time again, we have been through the flame, purging us of our weaknesses, burning out the impurities which would steal our might from within. We, seated here today, are the polished products of those flames. But as you know, our trials by fire have not ended. The loss of our head has wounded us deeply," _Some of us more than others,_ "but it has not killed us. And what does not kill us only serves to strengthen us. We have felt the striking hammer of death; we have felt the blazing fire of lost comrades. We have been beaten, but not broken. And today, we stand ready to move forward, sharper and stronger than ever before. And we will do so under one whom Sterling Lanza, himself, has chosen."

            She squared her shoulders more than she thought possible, and drew in a deep breath. _The price of my position, I guess. I only wish it had been Jared doing this. I feel like such a traitor_. She swept a slow, even gaze across the crowd, breathed in again, and in her best announcing voice said, "It is my pleasure to present to you our new Commanding Officer. He is the nephew of our own late captain, and comes to us with a wealth of knowledge of self-dependence. He, like us," _Nothing like us_, " has persevered through serious setbacks, and is no stranger to death either. While he is young, do not forget that so am I, and I am honoured by the great confidence you seem to place in me. I am told that our new captain is most eager to assume command of this unit, and that he intends to carry on his uncle's vision for the Daggers.

            "Without further ado, please rise to greet your new leader, Captain Matthew Sarray."

            The crowd rose into a polite applause, and the military march resumed. Gail hesitated for a several moments, deciding that this was her last chance to put off meeting the grain of sand meant to fill the canyon left in her heart by Sterling Lanza.

            Not long after the visit to the observation deck, Matt found himself standing before a door that simultaneously filled him with wonder and dread. Jared had foregone the tour of the ship, telling Matt that it would be better to that after the crew had had the chance to meet him. Matt chaffed at the idea, his sense of curiosity eating at him mightily, but he decided it was best to obey; at least while Jared was there.

            "We'll get you all set up with your quarters, first, Matthew," Jared had told him as he led the young man away from the mind-boggling beauty of the starscape. From there, it had taken a full five minutes to reach the point they were presently at. Along the way, the rancher had been introduced to what parts of the ship as they happened by, and it was explained to him that, while the _'Card_ did have artificial gravity, the ship had been originally built for zero-g, and the crew usually switched off the gravity before entering combat, to spare the risk of having it unexpectedly shot out when they were still depending on it. The maze of orthogonal corridors—some "horizontal" some "vertical"—was testimony to that notion.

            They had passed the main barracks, the crew's mess area, a number of miscellaneous offices, and even a communal washroom/showering area. Jared had commented that, out in the depths of space, that water—of any kind—was at a premium, and that he should get used to taking short, efficient showers. He had mentioned that despite that the liquid was recycled as many times as possible, that water was still the most often replaced of an of the consumables on board, and for good reason.

            And now he found himself here, standing at the threshold of his destiny. In a moment, the door would open, and he would step into the Captain's ward room, which would then become _his_ wardroom. And he would be Captain.

            Yes, there was still all the "official junk" that remained to be done, and yes, he still needed to meet with the crew, but Jared had told him it would require time to get everything in order, and had set the event to occur roughly four hours from the time they had docked. Matt hated to admit that he needed the rest, but Jared had insisted, and Matt decided it wasn't a good idea to get into an argument with his new second-in-command before he'd even changed into his uniform (which, he had learned, would be left over from his uncle, who was about his height). All the rest could wait, Matt had thought, because here, now, was history, as far as he was concerned. He knew there would be other such moments, in the next few days, such as when he was to meet the crew, the first time he stepped onto the bridge, the first time he sat in the captain's chair, etc. But this room, right here, was to be his home, his retreat, his fortress of solitude.

            "Well, Matthew, any time you're ready. Let's key you in, first, and then you can go on in and take a break before this evening." Matt followed Jared's instructions as the older man helped code his identity into the ship's computer, and identify him as the new occupant of these quarters. Voice, retina and palm prints were recorded, and a password added, just in case. The whole process was repeated, and finally, the soft, female voice of the computer assured him that verification was complete, welcoming him to his new home.

            "Well, then," Matt said, his heart pounding in his throat. "This is it."

            "Yes, Matthew, this is it. Have a pleasant nap. Shall I wake you an hour before the meeting?"

            "Yes, please. That'd save me trying to figure out any sleep alarms. Thanks again, Jared, for showing me all this. It's not even official, but you're already the biggest help I've had through this whole thing—you and Ylaran— and I think that'll continue with you as my first officer. Oh, and sorry about running out on you, last night."

            Panocha smiled humbly, and said, "I am at your service, Captain." There was something in the way the bulky man said that that didn't bring Matt any real comfort. It wasn't so much a _dis_comfort, but he wasn't left with the feeling that he could exactly rest easy. Worse than that, he had no idea why he felt that way. He dismissed the thought as fatigue-induced, and moved on.

            "So you know, Matthew, I've prepared a bit of a speech for you, during the initial journey to contact you. It's nothing much, really, in fact, it's not even a 'speech' per se. It's more a set of notes for you. Just points you might want to cover when you address the crew." From his breast pocket, Panocha produced a small datapad, and handed the palm-top unit over to his commander. Matt accepted it with a confused look, and glanced curiously at the screen as he powered it up.

            "You…wrote a speech for me?"

            "As I mentioned, Matthew, it's more a list of things you might want to discuss. The crew is, understandably, concerned about getting a new commander—and employer, I might add—and I've heard some of the concerns floating around. If you hit those points in your talking to them, they're more likely to feel that you've done your homework, and that you care about them, even if you don't know them all that well."

            Matt eyed the datapad suspiciously. "You did this before I even accepted? How' you know I was going to say 'yes', anyway? I mean, you gotta admit that I ran away from you, the first time we met."

            "You really want to know how I knew you'd accept my offer?"

            "That's what I'm saying."

            Jared grinned a little. "I knew I had what you wanted most. I knew I had that part of you that you were missing, but didn't know you were missing. Our initial encounter was, as I've said, unplanned and poorly executed, but I figured that if I could just get you to hear me out, you'd jump at what I had to offer."

            "And here I am."

            "Here you are. I'm sure your mother would be proud of you. She was first in her graduating class at the Federation Naval Academy, back in '23. She left the Navy when she met your father, during shore leave, and they married the very next time she came on leave. From there…wait. I'll stop. You need some rest, and you've only got a few more hours before you're due to address what's left of the Obsidian Daggers."

            "No!" Matt's eyes were wide, and he looked as if he were being told the greatest secret in the entire universe. "No, Jared, don't stop. I want to hear the rest of this."

            "Look, son, you're tired. I know you _want_ to hear all this—and I'll finish it later—but right now, you _need_ to rest and freshen up. Honestly, we might have a hard lot of beings, here, and they don't want some 'pretty boy' leading them, but they do have a right to know that the person they've been forced to give their lives to isn't some street bum. Get some sleep. You've had a long day."

            "Jared, just finish…"

            The tall Derivian clapped a meaty hand on Matt's left shoulder, infusing it with a mix of sympathy, "strong suggestion," and pride in the boy. "Later. Rest, now. Please."

            "But…"

            "Not now." Jared gave Matt's shoulder a reassuring squeeze, and he flashed a sympathetic smile, and then backed away from the door. "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a ceremony to put together. I trust your quarters will be acceptable. If there's anything you need, just give a yeoman a buzz, and you can put in a requisition with the Quartermaster. In fact, I suspect that you'll be seeing a lot of him, in the next little while, as you get yourself on your feet."

            The young captain wanted to give his 1st officer "puppy-dog eyes," but realized that the tactic would be entirely lost on the sightless man, and whimpering was out of the question. Instead, he responded with a  "Yes, sir," and triggered the door to the captain's wardroom.

            It was not what he had expected at all. The room was a third the size of his bedroom at the ranch house, and had only two, small windows. The view was spectacular, but the size of the viewing ports left Matt feeling more as if he were in prison than in the place reserved for a captain of a heavy cruiser.

            The walls were lacking in any manner of décor, save two clocks, one which read "Ship/Gal-standard time, the other, "Local time". The desk little more than a chunk of steel with a hole carved in one of the sides, allowing a chair to be slid under it, and covered with a false wood top. The drawers worked, more or less, but were empty. A built in lamp was fixed to the rear of the desk, and its flexible neck had been craned up and over, so the actual light was suspended about 50 centimetres above the desktop. Lastly, a powerful looking personal computer had also come as an in-built part of the table, and Matt couldn't wait to fire it up and see what it could do.

            The bed was a double, and Matt made a mental note to ask about the odd straps that hung down from the side of the bed that was away from the wall. The mattress still looked to be in decent condition—no holes, stains or tears—and the pillow seemed surprisingly supple, which observation was borne out when Matt decided to lower himself onto the contraption. _Best not to jump on this thing before I know how securely anchored it is_.

            From the bed, he could make out a small closet, set into the wall across from where he lie, a kitchenette with a good range of amenities, an intercom, a holovid projector with a disk player and what looked suspiciously like a gaming console.

            All in all, it wasn't bad, but then again, it wasn't paradise. The room seemed dim, and while there was no odour he could distinctly detect, it just _seemed_ as if the place should reek, and so his olfactory nerves went to work inventing something to smell. The ceiling was actually a reasonable height, but then, Matt was just under two metres tall, leaving only a few decimetres or so, between his scalp and the ceiling.

            _No use in complaining. Today has been worlds away better than I ever could have wished for, and I'm willing to bet I'm allowed to decorate. Let's see what there is to see, about this place_.

            Matt noticed that someone has already brought his rucksack to his quarters, as the black, moderate sized bag was resting just next to his bed. He walked over and flopped himself on the bunk, noticing that there was little in the way of bounce, but that it wasn't exactly like sleeping on a board, either. In fact, he noticed that the mattress actually seemed to be contouring itself to his body, and within a few moments, he had determined that this new bed was well more comfortable than the old one he'd slept on, back at the ranch. Satisfied that he could sleep here without serious adjustments, he reached into his bag and pulled out a stack of old-fashioned hardcopy magazines. Shuffling through the pile, he selected one, and dropped the rest onto the floor. Flipping through pages, he finally found the feature article, which featured a detailed, fold-out image, which he extended to full length. Ah, yes. A Pechanga. So, where do I go first?

Dressed in the regular fatigues of the Daggers, Matt Sarray walked, unchallenged, into the communal shower. He heard a couple of crewmen talking, and the dripping of a shower. _Must'a just finished_.

Matt undressed, and walked into the semi-enclosed showering area. A long, metal towel rack was hung against the partitioning wall, and four showerheads protruded from the far wall. Each showerhead was serviced by a small soap dish— set at about chest height— which was somewhat unusual to him. But what Matt found surprising was that the place was tiled, just as one would expect from something planet-bound.

Matt looked around for a towel, and found two bins, just outside the showers. One was marked "clean," the other, "dirty." The new captain fished out an unused towel, and tossed it over the rack, and turned the shower to "hot." The water managed to stay hot for about two minutes, after which, the flow quickly turned to a cold, slow trickle. What the? Oh, wait. Yeah. The remembrance about the lack of water washed over him along with the thin, chilly stream from the shower, and he decided to just turn it off, and try again later, when he had formulated a battle plan for showering more efficiently.

He turned off the water, and reached for the towel. Just then, a hoot of laughter caught his ears—and his curiosity—and he went silent, deciding that eavesdropping on the crew was no sin for the captain of a starship.

"So anyway, it turns out that Panocha spooked him," said a voice, from just beyond the partition wall. "The dude was in one of them hick-town bars, and Panocha pretty much just looked at him, and the weenie ran for it."

"No way," exclaimed a second voice.

"Get this, bro, it gets better. The guy was so scared, he had to get a buncha drunk guys to beat up the Commander! Can you believe it?"

"You kidding, Jantzen? You can't tell me you buy everything that comes outta the rumour mill."

"Ain't no rumour. I was in sickbay when they brought him in. I heard it straight from his lips, when he sat there telling it all to Doctor Hall. This is 'grade A' stuff, mate."

The voice identified as "Jantzen" laughed, and replied, "And they still got him to be Captain, huh? How'd the Commander swing that?"

The other man lowered his voice, and while Matt couldn't see it, he could only imagine him leaning over to Jantzen, beckoning him to close the distance, and share in this juiciest of secret pieces of gossip. "Well, two things, apparently. First, Cap'n Lanza was supposedly this guy's uncle, and I picked up on the fact that some cash was involved. But I guess they were worried that the money might not be enough, which is why…which is why Sexy Silvestri went down there, too. See, I'm guessing…" A silent pause, followed by "Whhhhoooooaaaa baby," and some heinous laughter. Matt hadn't seen anything, but he was a man, and he knew how men's minds worked.

_"Sexy" Silvestri? That's her nickname with the crew? Gotta get a tally on how many of these guys have "visited" with her in the last little while. I'm so glad Jared clued me in on this ahead of time. Can't afford to have my First Officer seducing me on the bridge. I've just_ gotta _do this right, and I can't afford a succubus on my crew. Maybe I can get her transferred? Then again, I really wouldn't mind having that gorgeous vision from Chuck's Grille on board_. _If she were a bit nicer_.

His thoughts mulled like cider as he considered the story he'd just heard. While he knew how gossip tended to get warped as it went down the pipeline, he was disturbed by whatever truths had spawned the tale. That he was coming to command a crew that thought of him as a "weenie," and had been led by a brazen hussy, offered no comfort. Quite the contrary, painful thoughts of severe disappointment had already begun banging away at the periphery of his consciousness, and it was slowly dawning on him that this whole deal might not be quite as sweet as it had sounded when Jared pitched it to him. _No. Stop it Matt. Think positive. Think positive._ He scratched the tip of his nose, and set to drying off.

Following the experience in the shower, Matt felt it might be best to just stick to his cabin, letting his fantasies run free; he needed the stimulating reminder. Flights of fancy took him all across the universe, giving life to the stories Jared had dished him, just earlier that day. Very much earlier, he suddenly realised. A glance at the clock told him that he had just over a half an hour before it was his turn to meet the crew. _Hmm… wonder what happened to Jared. He said he'd get me. Eh, whatever._

Dress. Practice acting like he knew what he was doing. Think about Gerila. Think about the goddess of Chuck's grille. Think more about her. And a bit more. And so Matt whiled away most of the rest of his free time.

Summons came with only ten minutes remaining. Ylaran had triggered door chime, catching Matt right in the middle of some calisthenics. He wasn't sure _why_ he was doing them, but it made him feel more productive, and more like he was actually trying to fill his role, rather than just be some freeloader who got the nicest cabin be default.

Minutes later, Matt was facing yet another door; only this one seemed more a barrier than a gateway, as the door to his cabin had. He did his best not to fidget, as he stood there in the cold, spartan corridor that serviced the rec-room, but he couldn't help the constant itchiness of his nose, and he tried desperately to pass it off as something other than nerves.

Standing there in the dress uniform, he felt naked as a newborn. It had been quite an impressive piece of apparel, when he had first taken a look at it and had slipped in on. Far from what the holovids showed, this dress uniform gave lie to the idea that all mercenaries were drunken barbarians completely lacking in any measure of social refinement. Rather, this three-piece garment gracefully blended form with function, and even a bit of class.

The entire uniform was jet black, with silver trim in the hems and cuffs and silver piping along the sleeves and trouser legs. Silver shoulderboards capped the double-breasted jacket. The cap was the visual oddity. Essentially a helmet with a tapered neck guard and an arching brim, the headpiece reminded Matt that while there were times for formality, disasters (and snipers) were known to have little regard for ceremony, and the need to be ready for anything was simply the life and death of a mercenary.

Dark, mirror-polished shoes were set on his feet, themselves hosting black, knee-length stockings. The appropriate rank badges and pins were already in place.

Rounding off the uniform was a pair of weapons. Holstered just under his left armpit, the Kon'homnen auto-pistol, a favourite of the Zallun infantry for which it had been developed, and a popular sidearm in many paramilitary groups, after having been adapted for smaller hands.  Sheathed at his left flank was a long ceremonial dagger that bordered on being classed as a short-sword. _"Sterling" silver, too. Wonder if that was a pun_. Matt squirmed a bit as he adjusted the body-slung holster. The thought of carrying not just one, but two weapons for no apparent reason beyond exhibition unnerved him. He'd handled guns before—and gotten a laudable amount of practice with them during his ranching days—but back then, there was always a very distinct purpose for bearing a firearm. _One more thing to adjust to, I guess_.

As his future lay trapped behind symmetric slabs of steel, the Derivian boy-turned-suddenly-man bore out the hammer fall of his heart. He wasn't good at making speeches. He wasn't exactly renowned for his ability to make a stunning first impression either. In an instant, all the exultation derived from the swooning of a backwoods barmaid vapourised, dew before the consuming sunlight of the reality of here and now. Right now, there was but a single door between him and the rest of his life. If he failed to gain the admiration of the crew now, he was certain he'd spend the rest of his time with the Daggers, running to make up for it. An incredible leap of maturity had slapped into him the understanding that the men and women who waited inside the rec-room—waited for him—were to be not only his "underlings," but his support, his helpers, and even the caretakers of his very life.

More than that, though, they were to be his friends, and the family he had never really known. _Shralla give me strength_.

From beyond the doors, his ears could pick up what he could only determine to be the sound of a female's voice. With effort he managed to make out a few words, but not _quite_ enough to catch anything that would clue him in as to exactly when he would be going in.  Without warning, a floodlight came on behind him, throwing his shadow onto the entryway, a giant that stood as his final challenge to embracing his rightful heritage as a great spacer.

"It's time, Captain," Lancer Ylaran whispered, and Matt was grateful for this Kitaran that he could not but help feel a kinship with, racial differences aside. What remained was to be done was his entry, and then recital of the address Jared had given him. And then it was sink or swim.

Bars of song he was entirely unfamiliar with played, and the assembly room was then open to his view. Just metres past the threshold sat a podium, flanked to the right by a woman who also wore the formal uniform of the Obsidian Daggers, though her back was still turned to him. _That's her. Not even the respect to look at me when I make an entrance. I wonder how she'll feel when I make the announcement of her…change of status. Seduce my uncle and his crew will you, "Sexy"? Let's take some of the wind out of your sails._

Jared stood on the left side of the podium, facing Matt and applauding. His face wore the kind of pride one would expect to see from a jubilant father, and Matt returned the smile, forgetting that Jared would never see it.

A few arms' reaches beyond the podium held the assembled body of the entire unit save a few personnel who were tending to vital systems, or high-priority security. Mostly Derivian, they, too, were also offering a standing ovation, and he flushed, feeling suddenly disrespectful. He returned the applause with a smile and some waving, and tried to make out the names embroidered on the breast pockets of the crew, but to no avail. A cute redhead caught his eye, and he had a special smile for her, though he didn't pause to notice her reaction.

Only paces from the speaking stand, his soon-to-be ex-sub captain finally decided to turn around.

As she turned into the harsh spotlight illuminating the assembly hall, Gail Silvestri's face was finally unmasked. Brakes screeched, glass shattered, babies screamed, and crowds gasped.

By…the…Taenarians… was all he could think. His eyes automatically caressed her short, strawberry-blonde hair. His heart sank at the sparkle in her emerald eyes, set like jewels just above her perfect cheekbones. Gail's face was so strikingly beautiful that he wondered how anything could be _that_ lovely. Her figure was now tightly wrapped in the female version of the dress uniform, and Matt had to mentally chide himself for unthinkingly undressing her with his eyes. It… was…**_her_**[/b]!

            And then she stood just four steps away. Life…was…_evil_.

She swallowed deep, and pivoted toward the door behind her. _This is it._. And there he was. Gail looked upon Matthew Sarray for the first time. He was nothing special, though she had to admit that he wasn't all that terrible to look at, either. Thick, coffee-coloured hair peeked out around the brim of his helmet. Below that was a sunburned—but well-defined—face, and mud-brown eyes peered out at her from under moderately bushy eyebrows. The set of his jaw left no doubt he was from the farming world below, but at the same time it wasn't slack. He was clad in the same uniform the rest of the male officers wore, and looked to be in his late teens, at best.

As he stood there, staring agape in her direction, she read on his face blatant shock and crushing disappointment, all mixed with the look of a man just swindled out of billions by a cruel twist of fate. She guessed he was a newby when it came to introducing himself.

And there was something else. _Why does that face not look…unfamiliar?_

Her mind raced through possible explanations of where she might have previously seen the man child, but before she could place it, he yanked off his helmet, and stammered out something that sounded like, "Y…y…you…gah…wha?"

A bomb detonated in her head, and dislodged the forgetfulness. Eyes like saucers, she stared back at him as though he were a Taenarian with horns and a tail. _You…have_…got…_to be kidding!_

            As one, the two officers began to speak. Their collective voice held tones of terror and betrayal on the one hand, disbelief and annoyance on the other. "Wait. You? How? Back there? No. You? What the? When?"    

            "What are you doing here?!"


	8. Into The Fire Part 1

**Chapter 7- "Into the Fire"**

            "I can't believe she blames _me_ for that."

            "Who is she supposed to blame?"

            Matt reeled in the line that dangled from his rented fishing pole. Three hours, and still nothing so much as a nibble. The sun had topped the treeline, and a light gust of wind scattered ripples along the otherwise placid lake. He had been told that this was the best spot in the region for fishing, but was left with no evidence beyond the word of a local fisherman, and a few brochures. It had been enough, at the time, to get him out on this pond— recently promoted Lancer 1st Class Ylaran in tow— and into a sporting mood.

            Some part of his brain was clearing its throat, adjusting half-rimmed glasses, and quoting from a rulebook, telling him that lounging like this probably wasn't the most appropriate thing that he, as captain of the Obsidian Daggers, could be doing. The rest of him gagged and tied the first part, and tossed it neatly into a far corner of his mind.

            He couldn't help but fall in love with this world. So much of Soliven was here, in that it was everywhere green. But this world, this world abounded in forests and jungles of every description, over every square kilometer of the planet's surface that was more than 30-degrees' latitudinal departure from the polar regions. And it just so happened that his first mission had landed him smack in the middle of a pine majesty, the likes of which he had only ever hoped for.

            He could not look around, but what he would see a wall of trees. Stately arboreal kings stood shoulder to shoulder, wards of their home, and beautiful reminders of the terrific power of life. Lime coloured moss, spider-web vines, and the odd animal lodging was to be found clinging to most of these forest giants, and even the ground was as verdant as a Solivenese chumpi grass field when the spring rains ripened the earth for the seasons' earliest of harvests.

            The local village— in fact, almost every settlement, road, and building— had been cut right from the forest. Clearings in the dense woods were decidedly uncommon, and while Matt hated to think of the destruction that had assuredly accompanied the construction, the local architects had taken pains to ensure that every building was given as rustic and natural an exterior as was practical, most often using native timber from the very spot in the woods that the construct had been sited on. Roofs were usually green and vine covered, and even structures made from reinforced concrete had been given real, wooden veneers to hide the ugly, pitiful gray from the emerald beauties that surrounded the building.

            And here he was, essentially getting paid to flop down in the heart of it all, and enjoy what most people would themselves have to pay to enjoy. The reality of the fishing area had exceeded the vividness of the brochure, most especially since the flat, dead silence of the printed images couldn't hold a candle to the vibrant, melodic hush that was sporadically broken by the song of a bird or the chattering of some small, woodland creature.

            All of nature seemed to drift in one long, continuous sigh. But a former farmer found he could not fully partake of it, try as he might.

            He grabbed the line just at the top of the hook, and pulled the small barb close to his face. He peered measuringly at the bait that enveloped the hook, and snorted with some derision.

            "You sure this is the stuff we're supposed to be using, Ylaran?"

            "You were the one who talked to the Warden. You were the one who purchased it, sir."

            "You don't have to call me that. I already told you."

            "Actually, yes, I do. But I've tried to tone it down when the others are elsewhere."

            The Derivian captain wrangled open his small, plastic tackle box and dug around until he found the transparent canister he was looking for. Inside was what appeared to be nothing more than a chartreuse gel, riddle with small, ash-like flecks. The top was then unscrewed, and a finger thrust into the substance.

            "This smells terrible."

            "Perhaps the fish know that too. Could be why they aren't biting."

            Matt scowled at the glob that jiggled on his finger, flicked away the bait that was already on the hook, and then carefully smeared the new dose on. "I was told that this is what the pros used. On this lake. Rip off, I tell you."

            Matt couldn't deny that the dismal return on his fishing skills wasn't the root of his discontent. For the past seven months, he had been working (more or less) to find his feet in not only a new job, but a new group of people, a new planet (or twelve), and indeed, an entirely new life. For his part, he felt he was doing a reasonably decent job. Life as a rancher had taught him nothing, if not self discipline. He reported to his watch on time, and always worked the whole shift, though he would take the appropriate breaks required by Dagger regulations. He occasionally attended the exercise sessions that were frequently offered. On top of that, he read many of the reports that crossed his desk, although it was painfully obvious that his inbox was a mountain compared to the molehill of his outbox. There was just so much that he was simply clueless about, all good intentions aside.

            Even above the frustrations of getting into a rather large saddle that had, until just under a year ago, belonged to his late Uncle Sterling, there was the frustration that came from having to deal with some of the people. The idea that he was a "weenie" was still circulating amongst the crew members, and though he had worked to dispel it, he couldn't deny that he'd never hear the end of it if the rest of them found out that he was out fishing on the job. _But this is_ part _of the job_.

            Even the crew hang-ups were slowly running their various courses, and the Daggers had more or less come to accept him, if grudgingly in some instances. But that still wasn't the core of it all.

            _Why does it always seem to come back to her?_ From the moment of their first "official" introduction, in which they had both made fools of themselves in front of the remainder of the mercenaries on the _WildCard_, Matt and Gail had been at odds with one another. Sometimes quite openly. One thing had led to another, and relegating her from her status as 1st officer had only served to widen the rift.

            It hadn't been enough that she had been breathtakingly beautiful, only to be snatched away by the demands of professional propriety, but on top of that, she had an odd tendency to treat him as if he were her son, or nephew or little brother. While she never approached insubordination, the feeling of condescension was there, if elusive.

            All at once, he wanted to kiss her passionately while strangling her with glee. He supposed she were the very incarnation of the old, Tamaran myth about the twin balances of the universe—Trahl and Vrotta— which were perfect, omnipotent opposites held in check only by one another.

            He had wanted to patch things up with her, really, but the image of her as a self-flaunting vixen had never quite left his mind, all her strict uprightness notwithstanding. Since his serendipitous discovery of the less-than-professional appellation given her by the enlisted men, he'd learned nothing more of the crew's opinions on the woman. His shield of initial anonymity blown clean away, he noticed that many conversations ended suddenly when people saw him in the corridors. Such actions gave his imagination plenty of room to run.

            And even through it all, there was a still, small something that hooked itself into his heart— the way he hoped this hook would snag a fish— and sat there, not tugging much, or really even making itself known. But every now and again, it would tug just enough to get his attention, and during those times, he found he was less inclined to think ill of her.

            He heaved a heavy sigh, and shook his head as thoughts of his latest misstep replayed themselves under his skull.

            "You think she hates me for it?

            "Excuse me?"

            "I mean, it was an _accident_, for crying out loud. If she hadn't been standing _right there_, this whole thing never would have happened!"

            "With all due respect, sir, you _were_ the one holding the welder. Just be glad she kept all her parts."

            Matt lowered at his Kitaran subordinate, who had, over the past several months, become his closest of friends. "I was told to use 'wide-sweeping strokes,' okay? How was I to know I was going too wide? I mean, I barely touched her. I don't see why she is so mad."

            "Begging the captain's pardon, but you lit her entire arm on fire."

            "Well, there was that..."

            "Pardon me, sir, but I believe I just got a bite."

            "The... heck?" The disgruntled angler looked closely at the label on his see-through tub of bait, hoping to find some instructions that would at least make the fish _look_ at his hook. "What are you using anyway, Ylaran?"

            The Kitaran didn't answer, his attention fixed on pulling in his prize. It was a battle in an almost literal sense, but in the end, the feline marine hauled a half-metre lovely onto the shore, and put it to rest with a claw. Unsheathing yet another claw, he went to work gutting the fish, starting by popping off the head, and then drawing a wicked talon down its ventral centreline. With skill Matt had only seen in vids, the Lancer gutted the fish as naturally as he breathed, and then tossed the valuable meat into the insulated ice chest between the two men.

            This was his tenth catch.

            "Excuse me, Captain, but I missed your question. Will you repeat it?"

            "I asked what the heck you've been using for bait."

            "A few sandworms I dug out of the beach, over there, just before the tide started rising."

            "And?"

            "And I placed them on the hook, sir." A pause. An unfulfilled expression of inquiry.

            "That's it?" Ylaran nodded. "Fifty frelling credits for coloured glue. I am an idiot." Matt shook his head. "Got any more?"

            Ylaran's reply was lost in a sudden burst of static, and both men whipped around to look at the long-range radio transceiver they had packed with them. Ylaran was on his feet and twiddling knobs before Matt was even out of his dock chair. Matt had left specific orders that he and the Lancer not be disturbed unless an emergency had arisen. Panocha was no prankster, and the fact that he would be trying to contact Matt, now, only meant unpleasant things.

            The kneeling Kitaran had snatched the earphones up and was listening intently as he fine-tuned the device, and boosted the gain a little. He finished in moments, and held up the headset for Matt. "Commander Panocha on the horn for you, Captain."

            "Thanks," Matt said, as he settled the earphones and boom mic into place. "Sarray, here. What's happening?"

            "_Captain Sarray, my apologies for disturbing your...reconnaissance...Captain, but the Council is banging on our door, telling us they need us right now_."

            Matt's lips puckered at the news. The Planetary Council of Vedrellion had contracted with the Daggers for short-term garrison duty, pending the re-building of their regular home militia. As the planet was located in the Cameron system— just on the Federation side of the Outer Rim— it was prone to the sporadic pirate raids. Roughly six months had passed since the most recent hit, and it had proven quite a bit more vicious and well organized than what the planet's defenders were accustomed to. They had managed to beat back the invaders, and keep the collateral damage to a minimum. But the price had been severe. Matt thought back to Ylaran's gutting of the fish, and shuddered at the analogy.

            Vedrellion's economy was passable, but the lumber business was a fickle one, especially in an interstellar arena. Were it not for a good few varieties of native woods that fetched a high market price, the entire world may have faced abandonment decades prior to the Dagger's arrival. Because of the modest treasury and stringent budget, the Planetary Council found that they hadn't the wherewithal to bring their defenses up to snuff in anything less than five months. After some heated deliberation, the decision was made to extend the rebuilding of the home guards, and use some emergency funds to hire a small mercenary unit to supplement the regulars, while the rebuilding of forces was underway.

            The Daggers had gotten wind of it some time after the Bureau had tossed it out onto MercNet, but it seemed that no one else had wanted to touch it, for reasons unknown. Though still in dry dock, they had landed the contract, and made for Cameron as soon as the '_Card_ had slipped her moorings, the repairs complete. Following a month and a half of travel, the Daggers made planetfall, and went to work. For the tidy sum of fifty million credits, half pay in advance.

            Not wanting to upset the populace with the notion that "filthy mercenaries" were guarding their world, the Council had— as a provision of employment— insisted that the Daggers blend themselves into the culture as much as practical, whilst still maintaining sufficient capabilities to adequately perform their duties; which was how a Derivian captain and his Kitaran friend came to find themselves fishing on one of the most beautiful lakes outside Taenaria.

            The contract was set to expire in about a month, and the duration of the unit's stay had yet to see them so much as fire a shot outside a practice range. Matt had taken to the "blending in" with vigour, and had encouraged the rest of the crew to do likewise. But the adaptation proved more difficult for his clannish subordinates. Even though they finally brought themselves to wear local fashions, they always traveled in groups of three or more, and their military bearing was unmistakable.

            Fortunately, the locals either failed to notice or simply didn't care, and they found themselves bored to tears on more than one occasion. Seeing as Matt had no cases of assault to deal with, he was perfectly fine to let the crew be bored; after all, if they couldn't see the forest for the trees, he wasn't going to make them.

            That was all about to change, now.****


	9. Into the Fire Part 2

Matt hadn't realised quite how far away the lake had been from the rented storefront the Daggers had been using as a cover to mask their status as mercenaries. The drive back took just over an hour, leaving the young captain plenty of time to ponder how it was that he could work himself out of this latest fix with Gail. While publicly he called her "Commander," his mind always referred to her by her given name.

And he wasn't entirely sure why.

True to his initial intent, he'd kept a close eye on her, and had, as he had told Jared, retained her as his personal adjutant. His reasoning aligned with the old philosophy that it was good to keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.

She had proven quite useful despite the regular doses of condescension she had fed him. Her knowledge of the guts of running a mercenary unit was superb, and he couldn't deny her professionalism certainly served to keep _everything_ above the table. He was beginning to think that even if he had wanted something to happen between them, the odds were non-existent _Just as well. If this mission ends up with us in a scrap, we ain't gonna have any time for love_.

Unexpectedly, the thought that his chances for romancing the attractive assistant officer were nil, bothered him. He shook the thought clear, but moments later started flirting with the notion yet again.

_Get a hold of yourself. This is exactly what she wants me to think. Make herself look completely innocent, uninterested, and unavailable, and then,_ **bam**!

The interim between now and the embarrassment that had started out as his induction had been a series of more of the same. The crew had reined in any reactions they might otherwise have shown. People will be people, however, and instead of breaching propriety during the ceremony, whispered rumours, rampaging tall tales and a handful of jokes ripped through the ranks, wildfire to a field dried of romantic drama.

Where once Matt might have been able to meet with her in his ward room, too many "what ifs" had crossed his ears, leaving him no choice but to bring a chaperone to meetings. He simply could not afford to let the crew believe that an affair of any kind existed between the two of them.

The mottled green blur of trees faded back into view as he brought himself back to the present. Happily chaotic patterns of light played across his faced as the rays of the morning sun timidly filtered through the wooden screen of the forest as he sped by. Matt looked back at himself in the window, and wondered what it was that he had really gotten himself into. True it was that he had been able to live some of his wildest dreams. From the stunning beginning on the observation deck, those far flung stars had suddenly been within reach.

His formal tour of the ship had left him almost equally as stunned. "Starships Today" had been so watered down that Matt wondered why he'd even still bothered to read the thing. Dozens of layers of hundreds of systems were played throughout the vessel, bringing it closer to being a living organism than Matt had thought possible. Semi-organic microchips even serviced the ship's mainframe.

The artificial intelligence software was superb. Matt even found it somewhat amiable, capable of conversation, and it had proved a capable opponent for as wide a variety of games as the computer held. But no AI could be a true substitute for a living companion. And no fantasy could fill the emptiness of the woman he never _quite_ had.

The rental vehicle rounded the corner into the small parking area attached to the Dagger's current base of operation, a dreamer's thoughts were tossed aside for those of a warrior.

Striding into the white- walled conference room, Matt took a quick look around to ensure everyone that needed to be there was there. _Gail, Commander Panocha, Vralla, Magistrate Ohyanda and two of his staff. Looks like the whole lot._

As per pervious arrangement, the mercenaries remained seated when their Captain entered, so as to maintain their non-military appearance. While everyone in the room knew who the Obsidian Daggers were, the Planetary Council had decided that a deep-façade would be best.

"Mister Ohyanda, nice to see you again. Sorry it took me so long to get here. Mr. Ylaran and I were..."

Ohyanda lashed out with his verbal sword, catching Matt with a wicked draw cut. "Look kid, spare me the tales. Miss Silvestri has told me all about your little 'recon' mission. I'm not paying you to enjoy our world; I'm paying you to defend it. Is that clear?"

_Busted._ And the looks on most of the faces of the assembled pretty much said the same.

Matt grit his teeth and did his best to swallow his embarrassment, but it was all in vain; the rising heat in his face told him he had completely failed to mask the shame he felt. Caught off guard, he could hardly parry effectively. But he tried, nonetheless.

"Look, Magistrate, about that, I...I'm sorry. It's just that these past few months, you know... It's been so quiet and all..."

His bald adversary knocked the parry aside effortlessly, and jabbed hard, pressing the surprise attack. "Mister Sarray, let's cut the drek, okay? We've got a bit of a crisis, here, and we're hoping that we haven't just thrown twenty-five-million down the toilet. Now tell me, _Matthew_, have we?"

Ohyanda scored deeply; Sarray couldn't miss the patronizing use of his first name. Nor could he miss the sting that came with having his first employer reduce their relationship from that of professionals to that of parent reprimanding a wayward child who had just been caught stealing candy.

Ohyanda lowered his glasses; condescension was such an appropriate garnish for a coup-de-grâce. "You know, we haven't had too many pirates send us a nice, flower-bordered letter asking if they could just drop by for a visit and sack our world while they were at it. We sort of figured, _Captain_, that you and your colleagues would have the means to catch these guys before they 'stopped by'.

"And we thought that we'd hired someone who knew enough to sleep with at least one eye open."

Gail rose to his defense just a little too late. "Magistrate, your confidence in us is not wasted, we..."

Her feeble efforts were repulsed without thought. "Thank you, Miss Silvestri, but I'd like to talk to the person who's _really_ supposed to be in charge."

Matt hadn't ever been one for "death-bed repentance'; at this point, though, he felt that anything redeeming was worth an attempt. "Look, I'm sorry, okay? Nice day, my best people on watch. I'm here, now, and whoever's looking to hit us is still out there, we know he's coming and he might not know that we know. I didn't take any of your fish, and we're all here and happy, alright?"

Realizing his opponent to be a bit too stubborn to die nicely, the magistrate plunged the blade of words into the mercenary's mind, yet again. "You just don't get it, do you, kid? We're not talking about some kind of schoolbook problem that you only got partial credit for. This is the real deal, and we've paid you _real_ money here. People _die_ because of things like this, and quite frankly, I'm not going to have your lame little excuse that 'your best people are on watch'.

"Now can we _please_ get down to business?"

Matt had been the obvious loser since the moment he had entered the room; it had just taken him a while to understand that point. But now, as his ego lay bleeding and half dead, the facts were clear. It was over. Far too late for mercy or salvation, Matt put up his metaphorical hands.

"So, uh, what have you done about this, Commander Silvestri," he asked, his eyes pleading with her for any manner of rescue.

"_We_ have been waiting for _you_ to give us orders."

_Et tu, Gail?_ Even with the blur of a peripheral view, Matt could not miss the smug look that settled on his employers face as his own subordinate put him in his place. It was obvious this hole could only get deeper by his staying here, so he went with the old saying, "When all else fails, run faster than anyone running away with you."

He could do nothing more than sigh and collect his thoughts. He stared at the floor for a few moments, and his hands fidgeted with obvious nervousness. Presently, he found his tongue, and used the final, flickering ember of his pride to attempt escape. "Let's go, folks. We've…got a job to do."

Silent as death, the Obsidian Daggers crept out of the room, some bowing their heads in respect to the Magistrate, others casting looks at Matt; he tried hard to miss the disgust pasted on Gail's beautiful face. When the rest of his crew had exited, Matt made his way out. Ohyanda wasn't about to let him off easy—it was too in his nature to gloat.

"Don't expect further contracts from Vedrellion, Mister Sarray. You finish out your contract, and then you leave. In the meantime, remember that every single death these pirates cause will be placed on _your_ head." The blade had been twisted in his dead heart, but Matt still felt the pain. Even as the door was shutting behind him, he heard something murmured about "having told them about that mercenary scum."

The cheerful glory of the morning sun was enough to make the young Captain want to scream, tear it from the sky, and shove its cheeriness somewhere up a part of Ohyanda where that it didn't normally shine. To make matters worse, he couldn't even vent to Ylaran—everyone else was already in the vehicle, and Jared's ponderous size all but demanded he take the front passenger's seat. To be injured is life's way; to be denied even minor reprieve can be torture. The Kitaran flashed a knowing look at him, as he climbed into the rear, passenger side seat, and buckled in just next to Gail. She shifted enough that he could fasten his restraints without invading her personal space [I]too[/I] much, but otherwise ignored him. As soon as he finished, she slid back into her former space—which wasn't much, given the compact size of the cherry-red rental vehicle—and he could feel her arm pressing into the side of his.

Electricity shot the length and breadth of his body as he made contact with her. _What the?_

Her arm was warm and soft, but there was nothing to distinguish that feeling from having sat by any other Derivian like, say, Jared, but it captured his senses all the same. His brow furrowed in thought, and she did her best to shimmy away from him, but Chief Ward Vralla was a large Sniv, and his broad shoulders permitted her little extra space, and she remained sandwiched between them.

A jack-in-the-box realization popped into his mind; he enjoyed being in physical contact with her. Arm-to-arm it might be, but with a rush of emotion, he felt that he could kiss her, and drown himself in the lush happiness of her lips. _WHOA! What is going on here?_ His heart was palpitating noticeably; his forehead was already beading into a sweat; his palms were quivering, and his stomach knotted. His breathing was quicker and shallower, and his vision began to get fuzzy. A grasping—and yet amazingly liberating—tension took hold of his entire being,

"Captain? Hello?" The snap of Jared's thick fingers, just centimetres from his face broke the trance, and with a shudder and shake of the head, Matt was back in reality. He could feel Gail's annoyed, inquisitive sidelong glance, and Vralla was openly staring. Even Ylaran was making now-and-again glances in the rear-view mirror, inasmuch as his driving would allow. The fading stupor of instant rapture saved him from immediate embarrassment, but as confusion wore off and clarity of thought set in, his face quickly examined several shades of red.

"Captain Sarray, sir? Are you well, Captain?" Jared's voice bore a note of real concern.

"Peachy," was all Matt could squeak out; most of his attention was on brining at least the outward signs of his emotions back under control.

"Pleased to hear it. I was beginning to wonder if all was well, after asking you a second time."

"Asking me what?"

"What you intend to do about our present situation. I'll assume standard combat protocol will be in effect, but you do have the option to modify that, according to your best judgment and the scenario at hand. Perhaps Commander Silvestri has some input?"

"Perhaps," she said flatly, face stoic, eyes forward. Matt wondered if she had sensed anything from him. "There will be a time and a place to offer the proper input."

"Captain?"

"Um…how much experience do we have with fighting, again? Remind me please?"

"We have been through approximately sixty engagements of various types, and our rate of success has never been below twenty-five percent…"

"[I]Twenty-five percent[/I]," Matt exclaimed. "You're telling me we've got a one-in-four chance of winning this thing?"

Jared cleared his throat in a respectful—yet slightly annoyed—fashion. "As I was about to say," he added, as if it would eradicate any questions Matt would ever again have, "We succeeded in our first engagement, after which we failed in six of the following seven. That was in the first year of the Dagger's existence, which was before I came.

"Those losses nearly took the company under, but your uncle overhauled it—including the command structure—and since then, we've lost only eight other engagements; but we've never lost the ship, if I might boast a little.

"In other words, Captain, we've roughly a _three_ in four chance of 'winning,' as you are pleased to call it, and there's an even better chance that, at the very least, we will all survive; we do our best to minimize casualties."

Matt blew out a breath of relief. "Well, that's good to know. So… what do we know about these guys, anyway?"

"The early warning net—Magistrate Ohyanda was much too harsh on you, on that count, if I might add—picked up what read as a _Klyrva_–class corvette, accompanied by a _Desert's Light_–class ranger. Scans indicate the ranger is most probably configured as a fighting transport, so we can expect ground combat.

"I'm… not expected to just sit this one out, am I?" Jared shook his head. "That's about what I thought. Hey, uh, Sudhallas, I mean, Ward Vralla? You got a spare power suit for me?"

Sudhallas shook his head. "Eh, I'm notta thinkin' da Captain needin' ta be puttin' on one'a dem tings. We be good-ta-go all by our lonesomes, sssir."

"Come on, Vralla! If I'm going to lead this unit, I need to prove that I'm not above doing the dirty work. Gimme a suit. I need to do this."

"With respect, sir," Ylaran chipped in, from the driver's seat, "I've seen your scores on the _single_ time you tested yourself in one of those, and I can't say that you're what we marines would consider 'combat rated'."

"Oh, c'mon, Ylaran! Not you too? I was having an off day, that day. I hadn't figured out the zero-gee yet. You can't hold me back based on one bad test."

Jared piped up, beating Sudhallas to the words. "Captain, it's not a matter of judgment or disrespect. It's a matter of prudence and common sense. Let me put it this way—would you, right now, pilot a Trammel-VII speeder through the average canyon?"

Matt shook his head. "You're not baiting me with that one, Jared. I know where you're going, and no, I'm not rated to fly a Trammel-VII; but those things are so fast you need _years_ of training to successfully do what you're talking about. Ground combat isn't anywhere near that tricky."

Matt couldn't tell who it was that choked down a laugh, but it elicited a frown from him. "Seriously, it's what? Running? Shooting? Ducking and dodging? I used to do that all the time on the ranch, when I would hunt neernits; and lemme tell ya', them bounders are faster and meaner than any other being I've ever seen."

"Ima not wantin' ta be rainin' on yah parade, sssir, but Ima thinkin' we marines would ssstill think ya be spiffy and neato if'n ya jus' stay upstairs, ja? Wha'joo think, Ylarry?" The driver's head bounced in agreement.

"See, Matthew, we're not going to think any less of you if you don't throw yourself into the heat of the battle; you don't have to get yourself killed to win our respect."

Gail's hot words cut through the men's conversation with blazing fury. "This discussion ends _now!_ Captain, you're staying starside with the rest of us. The marines can and will handle any fighting on the planet. That's it. PERIOD. Any questions?"

Silence.

"Good." She crossed her arms with enough force to make a point, and the remainder of the drive to the spaceport didn't get another word out of any of them.

It was as if shards of ice were repeatedly being driven into her heart. Even now that she had killed the debate over whether or not Captain Sarray was going to get to display bravado in his first engagement, the wounds still burned; Jared's unintentional words of reminder were acid to her soul. While she had none of the same feelings for her new captain as she had had for his uncle, that history would repeat itself so exactly—and so soon—was a déjà vu of the most terrifying kind.

A chill ran through her core. Gail's future had long been one, great question mark, to the point where certainty almost made her edgy, but the thought of having to have her future suddenly suspended from such a thin and fraying string, again, _this_ soon definitely gave her pause. _I can't let this kid just blow this company out of the water because he's trying to prove a point. Sterling wouldn't have had it that way, and neither will I. If he renounces control of the Daggers, it will be because_ I _bring it about, and it will be done in my time_.

The silence of the drive allowed her mind to wander, taxing her mental discipline as she fought to re-bury the recollection of her late lover's death. She had not seen any of the gun-camera footage—she had made a point of that—despite her normal penchant for engaging in thorough, post-battle analysis; she always felt it was best to learn from every fight, and gun-cams offered some excellent, down-n-dirty perspective.

It startled her to realize that, with a near-carbon copy of the final act of Sterling's stage-play being set up on a slightly different stage, perhaps she would have done well to have not passed that other footage by. It was far too late for that now, however. She was probably looking at a brawl, and while pirates weren't usually the most intelligent of beings, they were known for their cunning and ruthlessness. While Gail held no illusions about her own mortality, her confidence in her ability to take them into, and bring them safely back out of this battle was firm.

But she still could not explain the feeling of… something… she had experienced when Matt had sat down _that_ close to her.

Summoning years of martial focus, she shoved the whole load of irrelevancies from her mind, and set her face like a flint. A cold, rational calm filled up her mind and quickly infiltrated through the whole length of her body; her battle-trance was already falling into place.

"Captain on the bridge!" The command center's current crew snapped to attention, saluting their Captain as he tepidly stepped into the ship's nervous center. _What in Shioll am I supposed to do now?_ Everyone was resting expectant gazes on him, and he hesitated for a few heartbeats. _Wait a second. They all expect that I know what I'm doing, so_…

"Standard combat protocol. Take us to yellow alert. Shields up, guns and marines on standby. Let's show these sons of zcheks we're ready for 'em." The response was instant, and—from all appearances—what he expected. _Sweet! It worked! Just hope they haven't seen that episode of "Steelshard Bladeheart". _Matt had grown up being told that vids were a waste of time, nothing more than mind-numbing entertainment for those who were too lazy to stimulate their intellects. Well, score one for the vids, and hope there were no copyright lawyers on this cruise, because he'd just been able to directly swipe a standard line from the pan-galactic sci-fi series.

The bridge lights dimmed to an unusually calming shade of blue, though some of the white, secondary lights remained functioning around the perimeter of the circular command area. The chittering of the yellow alert signal rang in his ears, and an almost tangible tension filled the air. Gail stepped up next to him and started filling in other orders, while Jared just stood silently by, observing, and offering his presence on the bridge, as befitting the second-in-command.

Tensions aside, it was clear to the combat-virgin captain that his crew did not suffer from the same lack of experience he did. Fingers flew across instrument panels, veteran eyes checked out readings and displays, the staccato hum of confirmations met his ears, and he could almost literally feel the ship coming alive, a great sleeping giant being roused to anger, just before unleashing its wrath.

"All stations reporting manned and ready, Captain," Jared simultaneously said along with Gail. She looked at him, and he at her, in what was assuredly a habitual gesture left over from his days when sight filled his eyes. Matt didn't stop to pay attention to any exchange between the current and former Second, so enthralled was he with actually standing on a warship that was readying itself to do what it did best.

"Commander Panocha? Do you think you and Commander Silvestri can handle this from here?" He drew several inquisitive glances from the deck crew.

"Begging the captain's pardon," Jared asked, looking askance at Matt.

"Mister Silvestri, might I speak with you in private, for a moment?" Gail's head whipped around in surprise, half-lidded eyes reservoirs of suspicion. "Just for a moment, Mister Silvestri. In my ward room, there," he said, motioning at the door that was a short ways behind her.

"Yessir." She executed an about-face, and marched to the small chamber annexed to the bridge. The door hissed open at her approach, and she walked in, stopping just a few steps beyond the opening. She stiffened to attention, and awaited her captain.

Matt casually walked after her, and let the door shut just behind him. He knew they were being watched, but he knew this would only take a few moments.

"Mister Silvestri—I need to know something. How do you feel about…"

"Sir, my feelings for the Captain are not in the least personal, and I sincerely apologize if I have in any way mislead you into believing that I…"

He waved off her statement with one hand, responding, "No, no, Gail… Commander. I…need to ask if you feel ready to handle this fight. I've… been thinking," he continued hesitantly, "That Jared was right. I'm not exactly good at this, and I don't want this ship getting' blown out of the stars just because I screw up.

"So, if it's all the same with you, I'm turning command—at least for this fight—to you, okay?"

Gail swelled with pride, and Matt tried not to notice. _Get a hold of yourself, man! _ "Sir, I would be honoured to conduct this battle in your stead." If he could have read her thoughts, he would have also caught the unspoken addendum, "it's about driggin' time you learned."

"Great. Then…go, um, do what you need to. I'll just hang out on the bridge, and you can pretend I'm not even there. You got free rein here, Commander. I, um, figure you're probably not going to get us killed anyway, so, uh… yeah."

Gail saluted smartly, turned crisply about, and stalked back onto the bridge. Matt followed a moment later, and informed the crew of the change. No one so much as batted an eye, though Jared laid a thick hand on his right shoulder. Drawing him close, he leaned over to whisper to him.

"Matthew, what are you doing? _You_ are the captain, here. If you wish to talk about gaining crew respect, might I respectfully suggest that this is a marvelous opportunity to do it? And much safer than your original idea, I might add."

The young man placed a hand atop his 1st officer's, and, in hushed tones, replied, "I came to the conclusion that you were right—I'm not yet all the way ready for commanding a starship. I wanna learn, mind you, but… I think that I need to give more consideration to the crewmembers who are relying on this mission coming off successfully. Gail knows what she's doing; maybe I can take a lesson from her?"

Jared straightened and allowed a broad grin to come over him. "Well, then, perhaps you have just proven some of us wrong, right there. A wise choice, Captain. A wise choice indeed. You may yet surpass your uncle in this business. If your mother were here, I'm sure she'd be proud of you, too."

Matt returned the smile. "Thanks, Commander Panocha. That means a lot to me. Really." Jared nodded, and Matt waited while the approaching ships were identified, hailed and determined to be hostiles, as suspected. Red alert was sounded, and in the new flurry of activity, an ex-rancher with a good aim, quietly slipped off the bridge.

The shielded, sensor-filled faceplate had been the perfect mask. Sneaking into the suit-up area had been tricky, since he was easily recognized, but the recent hiring of a dozen, new marines meant that, as long as he stayed with them (most of whom he had yet to even actually meet), he might just get in unnoticed. And he had been right.

As it had turned out, Lancer Ylaran's Platoon had had several openings filled by the new guys, and now, Matt found him strapped into a drop-couch just a metre from where his "commanding officer" sat manning the co-pilot's seat. _Wonder what he'll think when he sees me in action. Dude, won't that be a blast? Bet'cha he stops making fun of my singing_.

"Hey boss, whatcha doin'?" Matt's head snapped up, and his mind instinctively kicked into a reflexive "what's the best excuse" mode, before he realized that the other marine was not addressing him, but Ylaran instead.

"Do you have any family members, soldier?"

"Sir, Yessir. A mother, a father, and a couple little sisters. Why?"

"You married, soldier?"

"Sir, no sir."

"When you're married, you'll understand what I'm doing." And with that the junior marine went silent.

Matt craned his neck as much as possible, though the power-armour made the motion moot. Remembering the suits capabilities, Matt concentrated, instead, on the holographic viewscreen, and switched to low-light vision. With some effort, he managed to center the view on the marine commander—his friend—and punch up a 4x magnification. A few moments of study revealed that Ylaran, palm-top in hand, and stylus clutched between thick, metal fingers, was writing a letter to his wife.

He ceased his prying, and leaned back against the bulkhead to consider what he had just seen. Having never known love, Matt could only begin to imagine what must have been going through his friend's mind as the bulk of the Dagger's ground forces dropped toward the planet, ready to bring the pre-fabbed—and well hidden— defenses online, which would greatly assist them in defending the capitol city.

_How's that gotta be. For all he knows, he might never see her, or his four kids, ever again. I never knew he wrote to her right before fighting. Guess it makes sense, though; not like we're doing much else up here._ With that thought, he settled into a contemplative silence, lost in thought, even as the drop shuttle belly-flopped into the Vedrellion atmosphere.


	10. Reality Check

**Chapter 8- "Reality Check"**

            "_Contact with targets_,"  the excited voice said through his suit's headset. Ylaran couldn't see anything, but he trusted the guy on the tower. Forest City officials had sent the residents of Vedrellion's capitol into shelters that had been built for such raids as this. Meanwhile the Daggers had mustered at—and uncovered— the static defenses they had been quietly building over the past several months. Raid drills had been conducted on a much more frequent basis, which, while it left the populace concerned and curious, allowed the mercenaries plenty of time to erect and disguise fortifications without drawing undue or interfering attention from the public.

            "Water pump houses," "storage sheds" and "water tanks," had quick release roofs ripped off to allow hydraulically supported guard towers to rise into place. A produce warehouse unexpectedly disgorged a handful of tanks, a cluster of troop platoons, and a light scout 'mech, dropships had zipped around town, dropping stacks of sand bags in pre-designated locations, and the five-score Dagger Marines were busily stringing razor-wire in as many places as they could, assisted by roughly three hundred local militiamen.

            Anti-air batteries were assembled in seemingly random spots around town— many perched on roofs, hidden under cheaply-built plywood coverings. Ylaran knew, however, that the randomness had a purpose— there was no reason the pirates couldn't pick a random drop-site right in the heart of town; defense coverage had been maximized, while unpredictability had been accounted for, inasmuch as practical.

            Ylaran raised his field glasses, and peered into the distance, only to make out a long wall of trees. Same thing he'd seen last time he looked. Forest City had been aptly named, for it, as most every other settlement on this world, had bloomed from a clear-cut patch of the world's ancient forests. To preserve the beauty of their seat of government, the city's founders had ensured that nothing further than two kilometers from the Capitol building— laid out at the heart of the town— would be cut, curbing expansion, and making Forest City one of the smallest planetary capitols Ylaran had ever visited. He had to admit, however, that it was quite lovely, that its position on the banks of a great lake a bonus, and that the local architects had done a marvelous job veiling the high-tech buildings in a cloak of rustic charm. Rarrani would love this. I'll have to get a baby-sitter for the kids, one of these weeks, and bring her here while I'm on leave. The platoon leader's heart went out to those who lived here, saddened that such a breathtaking burg would soon become a blood-soaked battlefield.

"We got a read on 'em yet, Forthe?" The Lancer 1st class looked a third time, but there were still the trees, and the trees hid their enemies until they chose to reveal themselves. Waiting was a necessary, but often-undesirable part of most engagements. The kitaran had grown up preferring a straight fight, but his time as a mercenary had taught him that combat was anything but clean and orderly. Fortunately for the defenders, the streets in this town _were_ cleanly laid out, and organised in an orderly, perpendicular fashion. And there weren't too many of them, either, at least not major ones leading into or out of town. Defending a single highway, or even three or four, was decidedly more simple than trying to hold dozens of inroads. This highway, and the one on the opposite side of town, covered by Chief Ward Vralla and the remainder of the Dagger's troops, were the easiest and most logical way into the town; at least as far as ground troops were concerned. Pirates weren't usually known for their creativity, so Ylaran Fyrana was fairly confident that he and his men were properly positioned.

            "_Yessir.  Just under a six klicks out, and moving fast. I'm counting...twelve hover transports, looks like... one support tank and... by the Taenarians..._" Lancer 3rd class Forthe's voice waned, the despair obvious. Ylaran did his best to keep his heart out of his throat. For the continued, voice subdued with fear.

            "_They have two_ Peerless_es, sir_."

            "Excuse me?" The _Peerless_ had earned its title. An assault mech of epic proportions, next to nothing on the ground outweighed it or outgunned it. While ship-style shielding was still impractical for ground units as small as tanks and warmechs, the _Peerless_ mounted enough armour to make a stock frigate look like a tin can. Slower than tar, the mammoth machine's awesome range, electronic countermeasures and brutal array of weaponry more than made up for its ponderous rate of movement. In short, they were war machines that were almost exclusively fielded by the largest, wealthiest national militaries— and even then, not in great numbers. "Say that again, Forthe?"

            Ylaran glanced up at the tower, and watched the sensor man shake his head, eyes peeled in a mix of dismay and disbelief. "_Sensors indicate two— that's one, two— _Peerless_ class warmechs, sir. And they're making good time, too_."

            "Frag. Where in shioll did a bunch'a space rats get a _Peerless_, let alone two of 'em? Well, nothing we can do about that now. Rr'urothet?"

            "Sssiir?" Ylaran's aide, a Sniv, jolted to attention beside him.

            "Get Chief Ward Vralla on the horn, _now_. We need to talk."

            _It's not supposed to feel like this_. Huddled behind a sandbag barricade, laser rifle in hand and resting on the top of the bags, Matthew Sarray was already fighting. His battle, however, was to keep his heart from bursting in his chest, and his fear from overrunning his mind. _I could...die._

             Matt wasn't exactly thrilled at the prospect that, before this day was out, he might be nothing more than a memory and a rotting carcass. He'd had a bullet put in his chest, once before, long ago, when he and his one, childhood friend had been playing around with Grandpa Lanza's pistol (Matt wondered why the old man hadn't kept it locked up). Only the fact that a medivac unit had been visiting the town, as part of a traveling display, had saved his life. He absently rubbed at the spot, just below his left pectoral, but couldn't feel it through the armour; that didn't make the memory burn any less.

            _But I_[i/] can't _die! I just barely started living! And the Daggers need me._ I  cannot _let them down; not now, not during my first real test_. But there was no denying the cold sweat on his brow, the clamminess of his hands, or the irritating, embarrassing fact that he really, really had to pee.

            _Stop. Relax. You've got the cover, they don't. Just point and shoot, and don't forget to swap out powerclips_. He checked his gun, one last time. Power cell secure and fully charged, sights properly calibrated. He was good to go.

_Gail needs me_. It was a lie, but it was a comforting one, and the mental image of her face brought immediate and well-looked for relief and resolve.

The shout of "here they come" was enough to make him lose bladder control, however, leaving him very grateful for the catheter and catch bag installed in the power armour suit.

            As one, the twenty-eight men in his platoon dropped their rifles, clacking, onto the sandbags, and started picking targets. Matt pulled a bead on the unbroken forest waiting for the first bandit to appear. _Patience. Let them come to us_.

            Explosions ripped the air off to his right, and a shockwave blasted him to the left. The scream of jet engines cracked past over his head, and roared in his ears. Smoke was everywhere, and even without looking, Matt could tell that at least _someone_ was dead. The strafing run had come without warning, leaving even the alert anti-air gunners stunned.

            The AA guns swiveled hard, and commenced making their deadly popping noises, and a downed captain watched a half-dozen of them disintegrate— just in time for the pirate to unload a clip into his faceplate.

            "_Hold them back!_" Ylaran was grateful for the shout of encouragement, though he had no idea who had said it. He, as everyone else, had been completely duped by the placidness of the lake. Granted, no one had any real reason to expect fighter drones to simply pop out of the water like that, blindsiding their position. The watchtower now tilted dangerously forward and to its right, more than half its support structures blasted away. A fire was blazing in the now-abandoned lookout's position, and Ylaran could see that Forthe hadn't handled the hurried leap to safety all that well.

            Barricades sported gaping holes through which dozens of pirate infantry were pouring. The support tank was now bulling its way through the first of three defensive lines, it speed having surprised even the marine commander. The fast transports had burst from the forest as a blur, stopping just before the front line and the troops had launched out, sentient bullets from hovering guns.

            All across the highway, hordes of bandits swarmed over the razor wire and sandbags, weapons barking unabated hatred. The weight of the charge drove the pirates on through the first, second, and finally third lines, breezing past a downed Ylaran and the damaged tower. All the while, the cannon of the tank played havoc, even amongst the armoured troops of the Obsidian Daggers.

            _To Shioll with this! We've got better troops than they do_. Hurling himself to his feet, the Lancer 1st class cast a quick glance at where the reserve weapons had been  stockpiled, and noticed  that some of the support arms had escaped the initial hit of the strafe. Augmented strength left him needing no undue effort in hefting a rotary plasma-grenade launcher in one hand, and an anti-tank recoilless rifle in the other. _Their fault for ignoring the sidelines_.

            The ancient kitaran battlecry got attention. Blistering blasts of plasma got alot more attention. The rear of the charge halted in confusion, only the better soldiers turning in an attempt to gun down this new annoyance. Ylaran took pleasure in noting that, while these bandits seemed divinely graced by the presence of a pair of assault 'mechs, that grace had apparently been entirely spent on the twin behemoths; mere kevlar was not enough to stop his wrist mounted lasers, and certainly not enough to shield them from raw plasma as grenade after grenade shredded the pirate ranks. Slug throwers were likewise useless against the thick, high-grade armour of the powersuit.

            A growing number of the marauding brigands were coming to bear on the Lancer 1st class. Heedless the hail of automatic weapons' fire, the relatively short marine rushed headlong into the fray, firing at some, pulverizing others with well-aimed blows from the barrel of the recoilless gun. The tank's cannon barrel managed to swing into line without his notice.

            The first round went short, skipping twice on the pavement before detonating only two meters behind him. He was hurled to the ground a second time, ending up sprawled across another of the Dagger's power armoured infantrymen.

            "What the?" The other soldier's helmet was riddled with dents, sensor nubs were shattered, the viewport spider-webbed with cracks.  The damage had not been enough, however, to penetrate, nor completely hide the grunt's face, nor the fact that he was unconscious. Recognition was not instant, but still rapid enough to merit a second-glance.

"Matt?!"

            She watched sparks dance across the shields yet again. The _Wildcard's_ defenses were having an increasingly difficult time shrugging off the sorties from even the poorly coordinated attacks of the ranger and the corvette. "Can't we at least put _one_ of them down," Gail asked in disgust.

            "Working on it, Commander," came the reply from the weapons officer. He tapped the keyboard a few times, and grinned slightly as he reported another direct hit. "We've got a hull breach on the ranger— aft quarters. Picking up a power spike in the engine section. Looks like they're really hurting."

            Gail peered out at the ranger as it did its best to gingerly dance out of the way of a follow-up volley from the _'Card_. The cruiser's guns tracked it too quickly though, and all but a single shot passed it the beleaguered ranger. A satisfied smirk crossed her face as the tell-tale signs of ship death began to show in the enemy ship. She knew that at least the transport wouldn't be making another run.

            Her thread of time to gloat was sliced as if by a razor. _"The Captain is down!"_ "That came from the comm," she muttered, and she whirled to face the communications station.

            "Report!" The commo pressed his earpiece more firmly into his ear and requested a repeat of the message. Sure enough, the bridge's overhead speakers told the tale again. _"This is Lancer First Class Ylaran. We're taking fire, and Captain Sarray is down! I need an immediate evac on my position!"_

            She looked around the command centre in haste. Even before she ended her quick survey, she could feel her breath catch in her throat, while her heart dropped into the pit of her gut. Matt was nowhere on the bridge. _This_ can't _be happening. Not again! Sterling, what have you done? Matt, what have_ you _done_?

            Incoming fire rocked the _Wildcard_, and she realised that her time was preciously short.

            "What's happening down there? You had better not be lying to..."

            _"Negative, Commander. I have confirmation that this is the Captain. I repeat, he took a pretty bad hit and he's lost consciousness."_

            Gail glanced at the floor and raised a hand to her temple. _Heaven help us_. "Get an evac team down there _now_. I want him out of there on the double. And someone see if we can't get some fire support to help bust up those _Peerless_es. The marines are in enough trouble as is." The ricochet of a sabot round from the failing shields added a grave punctuation to her sentence.

            "Rally on me! _The Captain is hit!_" Kneeling over his fallen friend, Ylaran waved an arm to signal his position even as he called for his men to reform the lines and drive back the invaders. His other arm continued to deal death.

            Ylaran's rallying cry alone had attracted support, but when the rest of the marines learned that the Captain, himself, was there— and injured— they went berserk.  Within minutes, the invaders' southern assault had been stemmed, and they were beginning to retreat toward the advancing mechs.

            The tremors told everyone that it was the pirate's turn again. The harsh creaking of trees being forcibly knocked aside was the final announcement that the _Peerless_es had arrived. After that, they let their firepower speak.

            "Where the shioll is he?!" A trio of beam cannon vapourised even more armour from the _Wildcard's _now unshielded hull.

            "He's a feisty one, sir. Dunno if he's just got a stealth coating or if he's just right under us. Don't worry, sir, we'll bag 'im."

            "You'd better." Gail held her breath as she considered the situation. In her haste to eliminate the transport, she had chosen to ignore the corvette. She knew it was a dangerous choice, but she also knew that both ships would still have been unloading on her just the same, and splitting fire would have been far less effective than the focused attack that had brought down the ranger. She hadn't planned on the corvette managing to hide during the conflict, but somehow, the _'Card's_ sensors were having a difficult time tracking the more nimble ship. Since the early warning net had picked up on the corvette's presence, she was guessing that the problem was likely some high-powered ECM, and possibly even "phased" cloaking. While neither would render the enemy ship undetectable, it would certainly frustrate weapon locks and weapon officers alike.  Something ain't right. We've got enough stealth coating to make us look like a hole in space, and all five t-comps are tied straight through the sensors. We should have filled this guy with holes, and gotten off without a scratch.

            "I think we've got a winner," the sensor tech shouted. "Running five-hundred-three meters just above and behind us, bearing nine-seven mark three, up fifty-five. Looks like he's trying to match our speed and heading. Readings are still pretty sketchy." As if to mock the tech, another blast pounded into _Wildcard_, sending several showers of sparks spinning off overhead lighting.

            "Damage report!"

            A second technician replied."Armour holding at sixty-three percent. No breaches yet, but we're taking one heck of a pounding here. We've got the drones on it. Just hope that guys doesn't decide to pop 'em off, 'cause the IRM just won't handle armour."

            "Sensors— were you able to track that shot?"

The sensor operator nodded vigourously. "Matches that shadow reading pretty close."

            "Helm—ninety degrees roll to port, right fifteen. All stop. Gunnery on my mark—full volley on that sensor shadow."

            "Helm ninety degrees roll to port, coming right fifteen degrees. All stop, aye." Dutifully, the helmsman repeated the order even as he was twisting the ship around its centre axis, and swinging the nose to the right. Gail could feel the retro-burn shoving her forward in her safety restraints.

            "Target acquired, sir!" She paused for only a heartbeat.

            "Go!" The ship shuddered as a full broadside cut loose. The flux guns triggered first, followed immediately by a quartet of fusion guns. A cluster of swarm missiles spat from their tubes, and a millisecond later, the magnetic launchers in the secondary hardpoints hurled a pair of resonance disruptor missiles into the void.

            The flux cannon both found their mark, washing away shielding as a fire hose would wash dirt from pavement. Three of the fusion beams tagged the corvette mere instants before the swarms peppered their sub-munitions across the fragile energy bubble. The shield almost held. The corvette's hide felt the wicked sting of unbridled subspace energies, as one of the disruptor missiles detonated against is outer skin. Matter became immaterial, and reality itself was redefined in the area of the immediate blast.

            "That got 'im!" Gail wished she could share the man's enthusiasm, but corvettes were only a size-class smaller—and sometimes not even that much—when it came to combat vessels. Pound for pound, a "corvie" could give even a standard cruiser a run for its money, and while _Wildcard_ fell under the HC designation, a corvette was still a threat, especially as it had been working in semi-tandem with a ranger.

            The back of her mind could just make out the mechanical hum of the internal repair module, labouring to regenerate shields and produce the staggering amounts of power required to run a ship this size through its combat paces. Occasionally, the shadowy form of a repair drone could be seen around the edges of the main viewer, and a silver speck rapidly receding from their position told Gail that the evac shuttle was well on its way, apparently unmolested by the corvette.

            "His signature beefed up a bunch with that one. He's hurting."

            "So are we, Mister Mederal, so are we. How bad is he?"

            "No real way of telling, other than that he's bleeding off some extra juice from somewhere; sure is helping tracking."

            "Gunnery—keep on him. Hit him as your weapons permit. Helm? Ahead one-quarter, set for geosynchronous orbit over Forest City as soon as we get this drigger of our back. We've get to play 'god' to those ground troops."

            Noises of death greeted his first waking thoughts, violent dreams replaced by a chilling, violent reality. For the first few moments, the sounds were as blurred as his vision, and something seemed wrong with his neck. He reached up to feel it, only to realise that his arm was noticeably bulkier than usual. _What the?_

            Matt shook his head, a bear shaking off the wolves of undesired sleep. _Where am I?_ He made to sit up, but a hand put him back down without effort. The sound gunfire was unmistakable, bringing a sharp, sudden image of a dirty, grizzled man swinging an auto-rifle barrel into line with his face. He saw the fire, heard the thunder, and recalled the blackness, all in the space of the two heartbeats he skipped.

            He shot up panting, sweating, terrified, but the hand shoved him down much more forcefully, this time.

_"Captain, stay down!_ The voice was familiar enough, but sounded as if it were emanating from a tin can set next to his head. "Wait… I'm in power armour. Speakers. What? Why am I …?"

_ "I'm afraid you'll have to say that again, sir. Too much noise to fight through, and these headsets aren't the greatest."_

He had forgotten about the voice-activated comm-link. It was then that he realised who the voice belonged to. "Ylaran? What in Shralla's name is goin' on?"

_"Sir, just stay down. The evac shuttle is en route, and we're going to get you out of here as soon as we can. Just sit tight…"  _He paused mid-sentence to crank another round off the recoilless.  Matt had no idea where it had gone, but right now, he didn't care. As he looked heavenward through the badly cracked glass, the sight of a ring of marines—all in powered suits— was arrayed above him. _They're doing all this for_  me_?_ Overhead, black clouds of smoke popped all over the sky, saturating the air with a deadly hail of flak. Hot, red trails blazed by, leaving after images burning on his retinas, and he could hear the havoc of what must have been some manner of missile fire.

 _"Oh nyag… we need to move_ **now**_!_ Matt felt something grab the arms of his suit, and he was hauled into the air before he could make heads or tails of the action. Next he knew, he was roughly bouncing, tumbling, and jerking along, suspended from the back of Lancer Ylaran's suit. At shortish, regular intervals, those bounces would be much more pronounced, and Matt's intuition took a sudden leap in a moment of unexpected calm. _They've got warmechs. Big ones, from the sound and feel of it._

            His whole world flipped a hard left and he felt himself go weightless for a second or so, before coming down hard. He heard Ylaran grunt through the speakers, a cacophony of screams providing an audile backdrop of the grimmest type.

            _"Just stay here. I'll draw this thing off us. Hide. Somewhere. Anywhere. Go!"_ Matt made to protest, but his comrade was already sprinting away. Matt righted himself, only to find that he was in a small alleyway between a pair of five-storey buildings. As with most of the other structures, these buildings looked as though they had been grown rather than built, and for a few seconds, Matt actually feared that the fury of the reddening sky would be enough to ignite them.

            Looking to where the Kitaran had run, Matt could see his friend race across the arterial street, evading fire from above and too his respective right. The warmech was firing on him. He watched the Kitaran marine bounce over a pile of rubble on a quick tap of the jump jets, and lost sight of the other man as he landed.

            Then it came into view. The warmech towered even over the buildings, and an ex-rancher had no inclination to even begin counting the gun ports. Its shadow hung heavy on the streets and buildings around it, and the slow, rhythmic motion gave an unearthly image of breathing, leaving Matt with the feeling that this was no machine, but rather some great, armoured beast of nightmares set free solely to destroy at its own, uncontrolled will. And it was turning to find his friend.

            "Hey," he yelled, not thinking that the 'mech wasn't at all likely to hear him. Bolting to his feet, he nearly went down again as a wave of dizziness ripped through his head. He managed to catch himself on a wall, with one hand, and did his best to shake the feeling off. Even before his vision had stopped spinning, he was racing toward the metal monster, trying to figure out how to trigger the multi-purpose rocket strapped to his back. Something he did worked, and his lone shot was sent to punish the mechanical abomination for daring to attack such a puny being as the power-suit represented to it.

            The rocket did little more than singe some paint, but it succeeded in getting the 'mech's attention. With painful slowness, it began a turn toward him, though its left arm was already tracking him. Matt tried, unsuccessfully, to kick in the jumpjets before the first salvo came his way, but was spared a quick and vapourous death by tripping over an open manhole. Scrambling to his feet, he tried anew to figure out the jets. The warmech rocked slightly, and Matt watched as it raised its right arm to strike back at the impudent fool who had dared attack it. It was Ylaran. The Kitaran had broken cover, and was pouncing on the 'mech, a bloodsucking flee on a rabid dog.

            The power-armour flew over the hastily aimed shots, touching down just behind what appeared to be the 'mech's head. Matt cheered involuntarily as his best friend latched on to the brute, and began slicing through its hardened hide with his suit's laser.

            Ylaran failed to see the massive hand that reached up to pluck him off the mech. The _Peerless_ held the augmented infantryman at arm's length for a few seconds, as if gloating. Ylaran's right arm—the one with the laser—had been pinned by his side when he had been grabbed, but the Kitaran was still blazing away with his anti-infantry machine gun. The image hung still in Matt's mind for what seemed like an eternity. There was his friend, his comrade in arms—his brother—locked in mortal combat with a titan, spending his last moments of fury in a valiant, but sadly futile effort, the two combatants connected by an arm and a trail of fire that did naught to the 'mech.

            Without warning, the _Peerless'_ mighty fist contracted once, fast as a beating heart. Matt saw Ylaran's left arm stiffen skyward, spraying shells into the blood-soaked heavens, and then fall limply across the mechanical hand of the  Peerless.

            **_"Nooooo!"_** His tortured shout echoed into slow motion as the warmech carelessly tossed aside the broken power-armoured trooper the same way one tosses aside a used napkin. The suit hit the ground with a sick, dead thud, and Matt felt his legs buckle beneath him, dropping him to the ground in shock.

            He was almost glad when the guns turned back at him. His blatant folly was laid naked before him; his failure was now complete. His friend's attempted atonement had been in vain. _No! Not in vain!_

            Roaring with the rage of a thousand rivers, the battered captain leapt to his feet and bolted straight at the 'mech, dodging shots as he closed the thirty-meter gap. Instincts took over, and he triggered the jets without conscious thought. He nearly missed the _Peerless_ as recklessness compounded with inexperience, but luck was with him, and he hooked a steel hand onto some hold just to the side of the spot his friend had so recently occupied. The _Peerless'_ hand came around again, but Matt was ready, diving out of the way, and causing the fist to come crashing down on the 'mech's own head. Matt lost his footing, however, and slipped out over the edge of the canopy that protected the warmech's crew from harm, only just grabbing on before an otherwise inevitable plunge. As he hung in space, he could see the three-man team that animated the killing machine. They looked to be every bit the pirate scum he'd imagined them, but their faces all wore looks of surprise. _How about I wipe those faces clean off, you murdering..._

            The laser came up, and Matt jammed it against the reinforced ferro-glass, pumping kilojoules into the 'mech's face, swinging on his precarious handhold to avoid another attempt to crush him. The swat just caught him, the staggering force nearly forfeiting his grip, but a vengeance-fueled will kept him hanging on.

            Grateful for the damage the _Peerless'_ battlefist had inflicted on its own head, Matt shifted his weapon to carve the cracks larger. Without warning, he was falling forward. It wasn't until the _Peerless_ crashed onto its back that Matt realised what was happening. Dagger infantrymen were swarming the enormous machine, clustering around the head like sharks to a bleeding man. Rolling onto his back and sitting up, Matt could see the Daggers' scout mech sprawled across the mid-section of the larger mech, while one of the _Peerless'_ legs was pressing heavily into a local tank. _By Shralla, they double-teamed him!_

            A new shadow fell over him, and he spun about to see a second _Peerless_ advancing on his team. A spread of missiles belched out of its torsos, pitting streets and blasting holes in buildings and militiamen alike. The fiery caress of laser beams neatly pared through the defenders' armour, and a deadly staccato of four auto-cannon left Matt's ears ringing, as lines of death walked toward the fallen warmech—towards his own troops.

            His attempted dive for safety was just enough, but some of his fellows weren't so lucky. Pirate infantry were now running up alongside the great, armoured beast, and even the support tank was managing to crank shots their way, despite having had a tread blown clean off.

            The rout was on. And then, as if Shralla herself had mercifully decided to impose her will, the blood-red darkness was vanquished by a blinding light and a gargantuan boom.

            Matt had no idea how long he'd been out. All he knew, when he came to, was that the already-fallen _Peerless_ was still laying on its back, its face gone, its crew dead. The other warmech was a glowing skeleton of its old self. Molten structural supports dumped heat into the air, making it shimmer and dance. Pirate marines were splayed in a radial pattern about the charred 'mech's feet; none moved. The air was hot, and the rich smell of ozone played its way through the cracks in Matt's suit, and into his nostrils.

            At first, the rain was but a drop, then a second. And then, as if Vedrellion itself was mourning the destruction, the sky opened into a downpour, cleansing the air of smoke, washing the blood of the slain into the rain gutters, cooling the heated anger of the now silent guns.

            A wind kicked up, mild at first, but growing rapidly and steadily. An indistinct whine rang in his head, crescendoing with the burgeoning gale. Somewhere in his mind he could hear fast footsteps, shouts that vaguely sounded like, "where is he," and replies he could only interpret as "I don't know," or "try over there," or "please don't let him be dead."

            A dark shape loomed over him, and through the mists in his eyes, he thought he could discern a human face. The raindrop that ran sideways across his face was both hot and surprising. But even as the voices faded from coherence, he realised that the raindrop was his own tear. As the silent sobs started, he suddenly wanted to embrace the darkness that was creeping over him.

Ylaran was dead.


End file.
